Sweetness and Innocence Spurned
by AbbaLane
Summary: Four years before the timeline of the original P&P, Darcy and Elizabeth meet during her first season in Town. Their brief acquaintance ends in disaster. Years later, when they meet again, the tables are turned. What will Mr. Darcy do when he witnesses the full effect of his callous actions on the young girl who had once loved him? Warning: dark satire, mature content, BDSM.
1. Her Love

_"A woman's love for us increases_

_The less we love her, sooth to say -_

_She stoops, she falls, her struggling ceases;_

_Caught fast, she cannot get away."_

_\- _Alexander Pushkin, _Eugene Onegin_

She was young and innocent and in love. He was hurting and bitter and harsh. Had she been less romantic, she would not have fallen so desperately in love with his dark disposition. Had he been less cynical, he would not have hurt her so much in return.

They met in 1808. She was but sixteen years old. He – a young man of four-and-twenty. It was her first season in town. She was taking everything in with the exuberance that only a young and cheerful girl could possess. Every ballroom seemed to glitter with magic. Every new acquaintance was splendidly gorgeous or ridiculously amusing or incredibly intelligent. At one ball she saw _him_, and knew at once that he was the most handsome man she had ever beheld. The first thing to strike her was his imposing height, then the perfect symmetry of his handsome face, then the rich fullness of his dark curls, then the distinguished profile of his aristocratic nose. And at last, as he disinterestedly scanned the crowd, she caught a glimpse of his eyes. Those eyes would capture her imagination so fully that she would scarcely be able to think of anything else. They were of such a deep dark color, so intelligent and melancholy at once.

"Who is that gentleman, papa?" She could not help but enquire, whispering so that the object of her query would not overhear.

"That, my sweeting, is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, the most sought-after bachelor in town, so don't go getting any ideas." Her father never could pass on a joke.

This time, she found herself unequal to throwing a jest in return. "He looks so sad."

Mr. Bennet merely shrugged in return. Mr. Graham, his old friend from Oxford who stood with them, chimed in instead:

"I believe both his parents passed in a tragic accident last year. An awful fire that took down a good portion of the family wing of their estate. This is the first time young Darcy has come out in society since then. No wonder. It must have been a fair amount of work to repair all that damage."

"Was he cloes to his parents, Mr. Graham?" She murmured.

"Very much so, from what I have heard. Especially to his mother, Lady Anne. She was a fine lady."

If Mr. Darcy's appearance had sparked Lizzy Bennet's interest, his tragic history served to firmly cement it. What a poor, lovely, unfortunate man! How she yearned to reach out to him, and smooth those thick curls form his tall forehead, and softly trace her lips against it, and murmur words of comfort, and dry any tears that may come.

She spent the rest of the evening following him with her eyes. Imagining the gothically tragic mystery that caused that dastardly fire to rage through Pemberley House. Imagining him, her hero, doing all he could to salvage his fragile mother. And failing tragically, and blaming himself, and wallowing in misery.

By the end of the night, for the first and only time in her life, young Lizzy Bennet began falling in love.

She saw him occassionally during the following weeks. Though her father was a gentleman and acquainted with several prominent members of the _ton_, she was not truly from the same sphere as the tragic Mr. Darcy. More often than not, the dinners she attended with her family were below his notice. Yet occasionally, she would espy his tall frame and his unruly curls and his distinguished nose, and her heart would beat loudly in her small chest.

From following him with her eyes, she grew bolder and began to surreptitiously position herself closer to him. Desperate to know more of him, yet without a formal introduction unable to converse with him herself, she attended to his conversation with others. She learned that he was extremely well read and that he expressed himself uncommonly well. Occasionally, he indulged in almost sardonic humor, which was, more often than not, lost on his conversation partners. Lizzy, a devoted daughter of Mr. Bennet, appreciated those little gems and liked him ever more for them.

A month after she first beheld him, still never having spoken to the gentleman herself, yet already halfway in love with him, Lizzy sat a few feet away from where he stiffly stood during Lady Eleanor's ball. A cheerful ginger-haired man, whom she had guessed to be a friend of Mr. Darcy's from prior evenings, approached him.

"Come Darcy, I must have you dance! I do not recall Lady Eleanor's ball ever being quite as grand and popular as tonight, and there are some uncommonly pretty girls here tonight."

"Don't waste your time on me, Bingley. Go dance with your uncommonly pretty angels, and leave me in peace." Elizabeth thought that Mr. Darcy sounded more gruff than usual, and wondered what had happened to cause his ill humor.

"Now, Darcy, just take a look around. Look, there is a lovely lady sat just behind you, and there is Mr. Eaton with her. I am sure we could ask for an introduction."

Elizabeth's breath caught as Mr. Darcy turned around and appraised her for half a second. He then raised his chin indignantly and replied to his friend:

"She is tolerable, I suppose. But not handsome enough to tempt me. Besides, tonight of all nights I am in no humor to give consequence to young ladies slighted by other men." Without waiting for a response form Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy determinedly walked away.

Elizabeth felt her eyes prickle, and excused herself hastily from Mr. Eaton, another amiable friend of her father's, before he could see her tears. Out on the terrace, in the midst of her sobs, she resolved to better herself, to do all she could to be one of those beautiful accomplished ladies, to be worthy of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. In her love, she allowed herself to overlook that first slight, never blaming her favorite for his rudeness or for her tears.

She spent hours on the pianoforte. She donned on the best gowns she had. She straightened her back and lifted her head and practiced accomplished walking. Determined, she sought to transform herself into the kind of woman worthy of her somber hero.

Her efforts paid off, though not in the ways she had wished for. Over the following weeks, the refined lady that Elizabeth Bennet was quickly becoming in her desperate attempts began to garner much male attention.

"Oh, my dear Lady Eleanor, do you see that? Young Mr. Brody is dancing a second set with my Lizzy tonight! And his father with almost eight thousand pound per annum! And he the eldest! Oh, what a lovely thing for my girl!"

"Indeed, Fanny," Lady Eleanor responded disinterestedly, mentally seeking an escape from the loud woman's unwelcome company. She understood why her husband, Lord Cramson, enjoyed the company of his old school friend, Mr. Bennet. She also saw the merit of the Bennets' two eldest daughters. Beautiful Jane Bennet had been an instant success, and were it not for her meager dowry, she would easily be one of the most sought after young ladies of the season. Elizabeth Bennet, while too young and innocent to be out, had shown exceptional maturity and grace over the past several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was the only member of the Bennet clan whose company Lady Eleanor absolutely did _not _enjoy. She was relieved to excuse herself when Martha Samuelson approached them and Mrs. Bennet redirected her boasting tirade to the newcomer.

Mrs. Samuelson, one of the greatest lovers of gossip, was a much better candidate for Mrs. Bennet's converstaion partner. "Mr. Brody does indeed seem taken with your Eliza, Mrs. Bennet. But is that Lord Drenson that I see dancing with her now?"

"Aye, indeed it is! A Lord! How lovely. He is a little old, perhaps, but not too much so. And still exceedingly handsome! Yes, indeed, he too would do very well for my Lizzy."

"He is not only old," Mrs. Samuelson whispered, "but also a notorious rake." Gratified by Mrs. Bennet's gasp, she continued: "Indeed, he has a new mistress every few months. I have heard he had just let go of his latest one, Mademoiselle Angelique, a delightful little thing from the continent. I would wager he is searching for his next conquest."

Mrs. Samuelson was not far from the mark, and the horrified Mrs. Bennet was not ill-advised in her subsequent worries, as she watched Lord Drenson escort her daughter to the refreshment table after their dance.

Elizabeth, for her part, rather enjoyed the older gentleman's company. He was intelligent, humorous, and candid. He was self-possessed enough not to allow his lascivious looks to be evident to her, and he was not dishonest. Noting Elizabeth's mother's worried look on them, he leaned closer to the young lady's ear, and spoke frankly:

"I am afraid your mother has just gotten a full account of me, Miss Bennet. She need not worry, I will not kidnap and dishonor you against your will."

Elizabeth gasped. "Sir! That is a highly improper topic for conversation, even as a joke."

Lord Drenson sighed. "It is no joke, my dear. I have enjoyed your company greatly over the past few weeks. I believe you have enjoyed mine as well?" At her brief, confused nod, he added: "But you view me almost as an uncle. Believe me, I think of you as nothing akin to a niece. You are a beautiful young lady, and I adore beautiful women. For personal reasons, I have never had any intention to marry, and that will not change. I do not have honorable intentions towards you. But fear not, I hardly have any intentions towards you at all. Should you ever decide to descend into the _demi-monde_, however, I would be happy to oblige."

She did not respond, her eyes wide with shock and horror. She had indeed grown to think of the older gentleman fondly, almost as an uncle, as he had guessed. Never in a million years would she have expected such a speech from him.

"I see I have scandalized you quite enough, my dear." He gently patted her hand. "For the sake of your reputation and your mother's nerves, it is probably best that we do not continue our acquaintance." He bowed, and walked away.

For the first evening in almost two months, Elizabeth Bennet was too preoccupied to pay any attention to Fitzwilliam Darcy. She learned a lot that evening. Or at least enough to pay at least a fraction of attention, in the evenings to come, to men other than her favorite. Unfailingly polite but distant, she worked to dispel their interest.

And eventually, Lizzy was introduced to the only man whose interest she wished to capture rather than dispel. It was terribly anticlimatic. Fitzwilliam Darcy's dismissal of Elizabeth Bennet during their first formal meeting was as quick as her accelerated heartbeat. Their subsequent meetings consisted of terse greetings and one-sided conversations.

Perhaps their near-nonexistent acquaintence could have devolved into nothingness. Perhaps once the season ended and they both removed to their respective countrysides, her puppy love could have withered away. Perhaps all their future misfortunes could have been avoided, had it not been for that one fateful encounter in Hyde Park.

She went out walking. She loved to walk. She loved to spin and run and jump. A country girl, she was not used to the city parks. By the time she noted the horse riding on the lane into which she had so carelessly run out, it was already too late.

Worried, Fitzwilliam Darcy hurried to dismount from his steed and check on the lady who had jumped out into the lane so quickly that he had not had the chance to halt in time to avoid hurting her. He was relieved to note that her pulse was still beating, and she was still breathing, albeit heavily. Fortunately, she did not sustain a head wound, although her right shoulder appeared to have been hurt. There was a small amount of blood on her sleeve. It was very fortunate, indeed, that he had been riding so slowly. Otherwise, the lady would have been in danger of very serious harm. As it was, however, she had only sustained a minor injury and fainted from shock.

Darcy quickly searched for help, and was annoyed to note that they were quite far out from the popular area of the Park. There was not a soul in sight. He could ride out in search for help, but that would necessitate leaving the lady unconscious and quite alone. It was against his nature to leave a vulnerable creature in such a perilous condition. Sighing, Darcy determined that there was no other course of action than to take the lady with him on his horse, at least until they encounted someone else who would be able to watch over her.

Darcy looked closely at the lady before him. She looked vaguely familiar. Concentrating, he recalled that her name was Miss Bennet… Eleanor? Elmira? Elizabeth. That was it.

Irritatedly, he decided to get the ordeal over with. Placing her on the horse and lifting himself behind her, he urged his stead to ride at a soft pace, doing his best to maintain as little physical contact with the lady as possible.

The next day, it was all over Town. How the gallant Mr. Darcy rescued the poor Miss Bennet from a fall in Hyde Park.

_"Oh, how terribly romantic!"_

_"It was positively scandalous, the way they rode on that horse together."_

_"Do you think she fainted on purpose? It is such a compromising situation; he will be forced to marry her now."_

_"Who is Elizabeth Bennet? Is she one of those penniless Bennets from Hertfordshire who have been imposing on their friends hospitality?"_

_"I have predicted this all along. The mother is so obviously trying to marry her daughters off, and it should come as no surprise that the daughter tried to compromise Mr. Darcy!"_

_"I always knew that Eliza Bennet set her cap at Mr. Darcy. But he is too smart for these games. He will not be forced to marry her by her arts and allurements, I tell you."_

_"What a romantic tale – do you think they were meeting secretly in the Park?"_

Elizabeth was mortified. Mr. Bennet was angry. Jane Bennet was worried. Mrs. Bennet was aflutter.

"He must be prevailed upon to marry her! You must speak with him and make him marry her, Mr. Bennet!"

"I have had quite enough, Mrs. Bennet. I will do no such thing. It was an accident, and the rumors are not so bad as to make the poor man pay for having done a decent thing in rescuing her. I _will, _however, disallow any future unaccompanied walks while in Town. Do I make myself clear, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, papa."

Elizabeth Bennet thought long and hard. After the initial embarrassment, the dominant emotion in her heart was admiration. _He rescued me!_

All the warmth of affection she had gradually built for the taciturn man now grew tenfold. Her love was overflowing.

And she allowed it, quite literally, to overflow onto paper. She decided to write him a letter, expressing the full extent of her sentiments. Had she been four years older, she would be far too sensible to put herself at such risk. She would chastise her younger sister Lydia for this kind of foolish behavior. But Lizzy Bennet was only sixteen. As much as she had strived to be the perfect society lady of the past weeks, and as much as she was succeeding, she was still a young, naïve, hopeless romantic.

_Dear Sir:_

_I write to you; that mere fact is evidence enough of my affection. All too fully, am I aware of the extent of impropriety of my behavior. But I cannot be silent. Forgive me, dear Sir – for dear to me you have been for 'nare a two-month now! But I can hold this inside no longer. Believe me, I have tried._

_I love you. I have loved you, I believe, from the very first time I saw you. You did not see _me _until much later. And it was another several torturous weeks before I had the pleasure of your introduction. But I have loved you from the start, and that love has grown ever so much stronger, until it consumes me. I dream of you. I watch you. I listen to you and only you. I delight in every rare smile you bestow, albeit never onto me. I live and breath for you, dear Sir, and I feel as if I had not lived at all until I knew you._

_I shudder now to imagine what you must think of me, reading this letter. I am too terrified to reread it myself. I would never allow myself to put my shame, my reputation, my entire livelihood so delicately in another's hands, had it not been for the events of two days prior. I must tell you, my dearest, loveliest Mr. Darcy, how grateful I am for your brave, gallant actions. You are a true gentleman, sir, and a man worthy of utmost admiration. _

_I am aware of the rumors that my unfortunate accident has incited. I am mortified, embarrassed, ashamed, to have occasioned any discomfort to you with my thoughtless ramble. It was unconsciously done, but I reproach myself most heartily for my foolishness and inattentiveness._

_As I wrote, I am aware of the rumors. I do not expect you to marry me. I would not wish to ever force you into anything that is not agreeable to you, my good Sir. I love you far too much for that. But I thought, perhaps, if I were to tell you of my utter devotion, and if you felt in your chest even a fraction of the regard that I so ardently hold for you, that we might have a future together. And so, I put my fate, my name, my entire being in your capable hands. Do with it as you please. No one need ever know about this letter. You need never feel any obligation towards me. But should you feel something different, something infinitely more precious, then know that you will be delightedly received._

_I remain forever yours,_

_Elizabeth Bennet_

"What vile, base, tasteless machination is this, madam!?" He walked straight up to her in Montgomery Street, as she exited the milliner's store for some fresh air, while her mother and elder sister were shopping. He threw two sheets of paper at her. His eyes were burning with rage, his voice loud and angry. Several passersby turned towards them at his exclamation.

She was too shocked, too mortified, and stood absolutely still, unable to either move or form a sound. The sheets of paper were picked up by the wind, and fluttered over the cobbled street.

"If you think, even for a moment, that your schemes will come to success, then think twice, madam!" His voice was dangerously low, but still loud and commanding. The curious passersby were beginning to form a circle around them. "I will not be tricked into marrying you. First staging that accident, then sending me improper letters. Have you no dignity, no reputation? You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"I – I – …I love you," She at last sobbed out, to the astonished gasps from their audience.

"What a stupid, disgusting lie! I will not be made for a fool, young lady." Then, noting the tears now streaming down her face, he added scornfully: "And if you wrote me that dreadful letter because you _truly _think yourself in love with me, then you are nothing more than a silly naïve little girl, who should not have been let out into society."

And with those parting words, he stormed off, leaving her alone and humiliated in the crowded street.

The rumors became far, far worse after that. What was a mere salacious accident, the account of which would have died down within weeks, had transformed into a full blown scandal. For a lady to declare her love to a gentleman, and in a letter, no less – it was unheard of! Worse, the windblown pages of the letter had somehow made it into the paper the following morning, much to Elizabeth's never-ending shame.

The mood was dark in the Bennet household. In Mr. Bennet's office, even Mrs. Bennet was too upset to lament aloud.

"What were you thinking, Lizzy?" Mr. Bennet looked at what used to be his favorite daughter with disappointment. "I have no words to express my grief at your behavior. You have put not only your own reputation at risk, but that of all of your sisters. To be known across all of London as the girl who wrote a love letter to Mr. Darcy! You should be very ashamed of yourself, Lizzy!"

In response, Lizzy hung her head. She felt worse than ashamed, she felt… despondent. The man whom she had loved so ardently had treated her with more cruelty than she had ever imagined possible in anyone. She had fancied him honorable. She had thought him a gentleman. She had been so grateful and admiring of him after their unfortunate encounter in the park. And now, he proved to be everything to the contrary. With no concern for her reputation, he had effectively put an end to any decent future she might have. What she had done was stupid, naïve, and thoughtless. But it was _innocent_. It was _well-meaning. _And, ultimately, it was _harmless. _As she had clearly written: no one need know about her letter. He could have burned it, and no one would be the wiser. He did not have to marry her. But neither did he have to make her the pariah of the season.

Having chastised his daughter, Mr. Bennet next statements mirrored his daughter's thoughts.

"Yet your Mr. Darcy's behavior is far worse than yours. You were a fool to put your fate in his hands, but he was a rake to have discarded that fate so callously. The rumors after your accident were nothing special. Other rumors would have replaced them next week. But to expose you so cruelly for all the world, and to throw your letter quite literally into society's hands! Why, that is atrocious. No, he has caused this scandal, and he must be made to do the honorable thing. I will go speak with Mr. Darcy on the morrow, and demand that he marry you."

"No," she shook her head, then fiercely wiped off the tears. "No." She had _loved _him. She could not marry him, not like this. Anything but this. "No."

It seemed that no matter how many times she would shake her head and utter that word – "No" – her father would not desist from his course. She could not fault him; her obstinacy would cost her sisters, her lovely innocent sisters, their future. Yet she could not agree to marry _that _man – the man whom she had loved so ardently and who had crushed her so callously – either.

She let her protests simper down. She let her father believe that she would be persuaded before they retired to bed. And an hour later, she left. She would not allow her sisters to partake in her ruin. But neither would she allow herself to be forced to spend every day of her life with the man whom she now hated the most in the world. Perhaps he had enough honor to marry her – but what good would it do, when he did not have enough decency to spare a naïve little girl her pain? If he were to consent to marry her, how much more cruel would he be in his subsequent resentment? And if he did not consent, could her fragile heart survive this further evidence of his dishonor? No, it was better this way. Her family would pronounce her tragic death. The note she left instructed them to do as much. Perhaps the callous Mr. Darcy would at least have the goodwill to go along with a pretend engagement with a deceased country girl. It would cost him a few months of mourning and would spare her sisters from ruin.

Thus decided, she waited for the family to be soundly asleep before leaving her uncle's townhouse armed with her twenty pounds of savings and an address in Mayfair scrawled on a torn piece of parchment.


	2. Her Fall

**Well, here it is. Please forgive the sin of anachronism that I have committed in placing Emile Zola's Nana six decades before her time. And while you are at it, please forgive me the other sins in this chapter too. ;)**

* * *

_"But our virtues and our vices depend too much on our circumstances; unexpectedly beset as I was, betrayed by a mind weakened by a long severe affliction, and stunned with the terrors of a goal, my defeat will appear the more excusable, since I certainly was not present at, or a party in any sense to it."_

_\- _John Cleland, _Fanny Hill_

"Please, sir, please help me hide! I must away, as far as can be, to the continent or even America. I will be yours, all yours, a good mistress, I promise! Please, just help me escape, your Lordship…"

Lord Drenson was not paying much attention to the quivering, shivering, blabbering girl in his sitting room. He was busy formulating a clear plan of action. He had a ship at the harbor at his disposal, with a discrete crew. If the girl could not be dissuaded, they would leave British soil at dawn and be in France within days. From there, discrete transport would be arranged to the Italian countryside where she could learn all she needed to know about the _demi-monde_, if such were her desired destination.

A maid arrived with the requested tea. He knew the cook would have followed his order and added laudanum to the drink. God knew the poor thing needed her rest.

"Elizabeth," Lord Drenson interrupted the young girl's monologue in a gentle but authoritative tone. "Drink the tea, and then allow Maggie to show you to your room. You need rest."

"Rest? I cannot rest, not now, my Lord! My fate, my life is at stake!"

Lord Drenson smiled gently. "We will sort your fate and your life in a few hours. Rest now, and we will leave for France right at dawn, if that is still your wish."

Appeased, she did as she had been told. Within minutes, the laudanum coupled with the fatigue of her overexerted mind took their toll, and Miss Bennet was fast asleep.

Lord Drenson, however, did not rest so easily. He felt conflicted. Even with the incoherence of her rambling, he knew why Elizabeth had come to him in the black of the night. He had heard what the young Darcy had done to the girl, and could not help but feel rage against the man. He had never been close to the Darcys, but he had admired the late Mr. Darcy. That admiration was not mutual, as Harry Drenson's disreputable habits were abhorent to the upstanding George Darcy. It was both disappointing and ironic that now Lord Drenson found the behavior of George's son Fitzwilliam so very repulsive.

It was clear that poor lovely Elizabeth Bennet had two choices: to wait for her father to demand Mr. Darcy to do the honorable thing, or to disappear without a trace. The first option, the reasonable option, would leave her either married to a man who despised her and who had so cruelly hurt her, or, upon his very likely refusal, would see her married off to the first man willing to take her, so as to save her family at least some semblance of honor. The second option… the implications of that second option were too dark to contemplate.

Yet contemplate them he did. He had spoken truthfully to Elizabeth some weeks prior. She was a beautiful girl, and he was a lustful man. He was more than willing to take her, and offer his help in return. She would be trained in the art of lovemaking by some of the most accomplished European courtesans. She would be independent and self-sufficient. It would not be the life to which she was born. She would no longer be a gentleman's daughter. But it would be a comfortable, even glamorous life, of that he would make sure. In his vast experience with women for sale, Lord Drenson could easily identify that Elizabeth Bennet had the potential to be a very, very grand Cyprian.

He would allow her to choose her path, as sensibly as she could, when she has had a chance to sleep on it for at least a few hours. Alas, they did not have any more time than that.

He had her summoned at dawn.

When she entered the breakfast parlor, pale, drawn, and red-eyed, he was amazed at her poise, her determination, her confidence. _Yes, she would make a perfect Cyprian._

"You have summoned me, my Lord?" Her voice gave only a little quiver at the start.

"Sit and have something to eat."

"Yes, my Lord." She seated herself gracefully. "If I may ask, my Lord, what are your plans? I am at your disposal, of course, but I would very much like to know when we are set to depart."

"Whenever you wish, Elizabeth. My carriage is ready, as is my ship. Give a word, and I will have you delivered either to France or back to your uncle's house. No one need know in either case. If you are still determined to leave, then your disappearance will be complete and invisible. Should you have changed your mind, no one will be the wiser as to where you spent the night."

Elizabeth put her utensils down. "Can we leave now then? For France, that is?"

He gave her a long, probing look. "Then you are quite decided?"

She only nodded, but so surely, so fervently, so regally, that he knew that there was nothing that could make this brave young girl stay. He lamented her ill fate as he rejoiced in his own good fortune.

"Very well, then, let us be off."

As they exited from the breakfast parlor, blushing, Elizabeth gave voice to the one thing that appeared to be preoccupying her: "You will not, erm, I mean… you do not wish to exercise your rights first, sir?"

He did not understand her immediately, and when he did, he let out a hearty laugh. "No, my dear, let us get you well enough away first." He watched her sigh in relief. "But do not mistake my intentions; I do fully intend to enjoy the reward you have promised for my assistance. I am not an honorable man, and I have never pretended to be such. But neither am I cruel or unfair. I will hold up my end of the bargain, then we can see to yours."

She gave him a feeble smile. "Thank you, sir, for your honesty, at least, and for your fairness. It is refreshing after seeing those men who do consider themselves 'honorable' behave in a manner far worse than yours."

He knew of whom she spoke, and he silently agreed.

Lord Drenson was a man accustomed to being right for good reason. They crossed the channel with no incident. Their passage on land to the Franco-Italian border was equally uneventful.

In a small chalet with only a pair of delicious Italian maids for company, they retired to the master bedroom and she upheld her end of their bargain. As he took her innocence, she remained soft and docile. For her sake rather than his own, he decided to direct her education the following morning.

"You are grateful to me," he stated rather than asked over breakfast.

"Yes, my Lord."

"You will not be grateful to every man you engage with."

"Every man?"

He saw terror in her lovely green eyes. He found it amusing, in an endearing sort of way. "My dear. I will keep you as my mistress for as long as you wish, but I know that you do not find me attractive. I am far too old for you, as we are both aware. I intend to provide for you, not only as a protector, but in a more meaningful way. You will receive the best instruction possible from the most sought after courtesans on the continent. Soon, you will be fending off admirers, and the haggard old Lord Drenson will be a meager contestant compared to the virile young _Principes_ and _Ducs_ that will be vying for your attention. I will not be greedy; you may go whenever you wish. You owe _me _nothing further after last night. You will entertain me for as long, and only as long, as you require or desire my protection. No less, no more."

Eyes downcast, she appeared taken aback. "I had not thought… of others."

He chuckled. "That will not last long, my dear. Trust me. Alas, however much I wish I could be selfish enough to keep you locked away here only for myself to enjoy, I care about you too much for that." Realizing what he had just said, Lord Drenson quickly continued: "But I wanted to speak to you about your – how should I call it? – your attitude, during the sessions."

Frightened, she breathlessly asked: "Did I not please you, my Lord?"

"No, no, you more than pleased me, dear child. But you did not please _yourself_. That is not to say that I expected you to receive much pleasure; I hold no illusions of my desirability in your eyes. But the way you comported yourself last night – so sweet and docile and submissive – I do not think that that is _you_, Elizabeth Bennet. If I may give you one piece of advice in the bedroom, then let it be this, my dear: do not be afraid to be yourself. And you may not yet know what that is… but permit yourself to discover. Discover yourself, and be such – no matter what that may be. If the pliant girl I deflowered last night is your true essence – then wonderful, let it blossom. But if not – then do not constraint yourself. And remember: whatever you young girls might be taught, men _adore _commanding women, at least when it comes to their mistresses. Men in our society are encumbered with so much control and responsibility, that it is refreshing, for a change, to have a woman take charge."

Lizzy listened to all this with wide eyes and a racing heartbeat, drinking in every word of her protector as if it were invaluable wisdom. And in the weeks, months, years that followed, she took his advice to heart. As much as she could, she explored. She attempted to find herself, or whatever part of herself still remained after Fitzwilliam Darcy so cruelly ripped her heart out and trampled it under her feet.

Carolina DiMaggio, an older but still beautiful Cyprian excelling not only in the art of seduction but also in the teaching of this art, received a handsome recompense from Lord Drenson to join them in the countryside _palazzo_ where they traveled a few days later. She first taught Lizzy the basics – how to touch a man with her hand and tongue, how to tease him slowly and make him beg for more. Practicing on his Lordship in the evenings, Lizzy was pleased to see the evidence of her success in the older man's unfocused eyes and uneven breathing.

Carolina's next task proved less simple.

"In order to truly please a man, my dear, you must learn to be pleased yourself."

At first Lizzy did not understand. After watching her instructor convulse with pleasure, she began to comprehend, on a theoretical level, that women could be just as undone as men. Still, the notion was foreign.

"I do not understand, Signorina. You taught me that the man's undoing is our greatest strength and weapon," little Lizzy pointed out thoughtfully. "Why would we want to expose ourselves to the same vulnerability?"

Carolina laughed lightly. "An excellent question, my dear. But the simple truth is that we must _not _be completely vulnerable in our own undoing. What I am asking of you is to learn to enjoy your sexuality – not to place it in a man's hands. Nothing is as appealing to a healthy male as the sight of a woman in pleasure at _his _ministrations. And it may behoove you, at times, to make the man _think _that he has undone you completely. In reality, however, you must always retain control – of yourself, and by consequence of him. That does not mean that you cannot achieve your own release, however!"

Carolina spoke such excellent English, with hardly any accent, that Lizzy wondered if the older woman was an expatriate like herself. What misfortune had driven the lovely Signorina to this same fate? Lizzy never asked.

The problem with teaching Lizzy to take her own pleasure was that it was quite unclear, to Lizzy herself, as well as to her supportive lover and her excellent teacher, what that pleasure might consist of. Carolina's entreaties of "think of something pleasant, my dear!" did nothing to help, and more often than not led poor Lizzy to weep. She would inevitably think of _him_, or of her family, or of her carefree childhood, and the weight of her altered circumstances would prove too heavy to go on.

Carolina had an excellent staff of male servants back in Fiorenza, and called for them at once. She made the footmen and stable boys parade semi-nude in front of Lizzy to see which of them the girl might find physically attractive.

A young blond footman proved to be the safest choice. He was extremely good looking, and his light coloring meant no danger that Lizzy would be reminded of her cruel love. His name was Gianni. Lizzy's pronunciation came out closer to Johnny.

Johnny had been extremely well trained by Carolina in the art of pleasuring women. His technique was as varied as could be, and over days and weeks, Carolina instructed him to try everything out on her protegee. Johnny was only too happy to oblige: he took her roughly and he lay immobile as she rode him, he ordered her to take him in her mouth and he begged her to straddle his face.

Eventually, some months into their arrangement, Lizzy began to open up. Johnny was happy to report, and Lord Drenson was happy to corroborate, that the girl enjoyed oral attention and that she had especially sensitive toes. She did not much care for roughness, but neither did she delight in excessive gentleness. She was fond of giving pleasure with her mouth, but only on her own terms; ordering her to her knees was a sure way to end any pleasure that might be building between her lovely thighs.

While Lizzy was obtaining a thorough sexual education, Carolina also instructed her on the art of comportment outside of the bedroom. Lengthy lessons in the arts, literature, and history filled Lizzy's days.

"Why do men come to their mistresses?" Carolina asked her one day.

"To make love?"

"That, of course, but so much more, my dear. They seek _companionship_. The most valued mistress is one who can entertain as well at dinner as she can in the bedroom. A woman with whom a man can truly converse, as an equal – what a rare delight!"

But there was yet more to the education of an accomplished courtesan. A stately, regal manner of walking combined with _risque_ closing, the older courtesan noted, were sure to attract and keep a man's attention.

"You must always look your best, _mia cara_. The red gown, the low _décolletage_, the lustrous jewels will draw a man's attention. But to keep that attention, you must play hard to get. Be tender and lovely one moment, draw him in, and then – cold and harsh, make him wait. It will drive a man _crazy_, and he will not be able to get enough. Deny him intimacy for as long as you can manage – enough to make him beg, but not enough to make him truly enraged – then, initiate it yourself, and give him the most pleasurable experience he has ever had. Next time, he will be even more willing to wait."

In more mundane matters, Carolina also did not overlook the construction of Elizabeth Bennet's new identity. Day after day, Lizzy obediently sat through hours of instruction in Italian, and slowly Carolina stopped speaking English to her altogether.

Lizzy Bennet, now Isabella Caraggio, was quickly transforming into a sensual young woman who would be unrecognizable to anyone familiar with the former naïve young girl.

After almost a year of Carolina's instruction, Lizzy was eager to enter the rest of the _demi-monde_. She was young and impulsive still; even if her heart had been broken, her spirit remained intact, in no small part thanks to Lord Drenson's kind protection. Lizzy Bennet, who had always loved a challenge, begged his Lordship almost giddily to take her out and introduce her to this brave new world.

He gave her a rueful half-smile. "I knew, my little darling, that you would not be content with only myself for too long."

"That is unkind, your Lordship! I would have been happy to remain only yours, had you not yourself insisted on having me expand my horizons under Carolina's tutelage."

"True, true. But that is because I know better than you that you would not have been, in fact, as _happy _as you claim to remain mine, my dear. No, it will be far better for you this way. Let us travel to Paris; you still have an accent in your Italian, and it would be easier to pass for Isabella there. You will have your coming out, a very different one from what you had back in England," he chuckled, "and you may have your pick of admirers and courtesan friends."

Her parting with Carolina was warm and almost tearful. The fanciful older courtesan went so far as to bestow upon Lizzy a gift: young Gianni, her Johnny, would henceforth travel with Isabella Caraggio wherever she went.

Lord Drenson, whose judgment Lizzy was beginning to trust as infallible, proved once again to have been correct. After a year of intense instruction in the arts of comportment and seduction, Isabella Caraggio made a startling debut in the Parisian _demi-monde_. Days after her first appearance at the_ l'Opera_, the crowd of gentlemen she drew to her drawing room during the polite visiting hours was impressively immense.

At first, she gave his Lordship uncertain looks before allowing an admirer to bestow a kiss on her knuckles. But over the first half-year of her life as a sought-after Parisian courtesan, she learned that she was, quite completely, her own woman. Lord Drenson continued to visit her bed, bringing her expensive jewels each time. After the initial months, however, he no longer paid for her house or staff. The gifts and monetary payments she received from him and the other gentlemen she entertained were more than enough for her to manage her affairs herself.

Lizzy's manner with her lovers also grew more assured in time. At the start, her cool regality was the carefully-constructed result of Carolina's training, just as were her flirtatiously sweet smiles. Month after month, she grew into the role more naturally. Occasionally, she would recall his Lordship's advice to discover and be herself, and she would smile.

She discovered in time that Lizzy Bennet, and with her Isabella Caraggio, was obstinate and headstrong, with a fiery temper. She discovered that Lizzy Bennet liked to be correct, and held to her first impressions. She discovered that Lizzy Bennet was sociable, and enjoyed the attention. She discovered that Lizzy Bennet could be playful, or commanding, or kind, but never submissive.

She discovered that the men of Paris rather liked what the true Lizzy Bennet was.

Her most shocking discovery, however, did not come until the second year of her Parisian life.

She had befriended several of her peers, bright and young and beautiful courtesans. A special friend among them, whom Lizzy both admired and disdained, was Nana Coupeau.

Nana was nineteen years old to Lizzy's eighteen, and the two had much in common. Yet Nana was even more impetuous, even more tempestuous, and even more heedless. Sometimes, Lizzy wondered if her little sister Lydia, a child in whom Lizzy had observed the makings of much of Nana's still childish antics, might have become like Nana under similarly dire circumstances. Lizzy did not dwell on such thoughts; in her terror at what ruin might have befallen her family after her departure, she preferred not to think of her former life at all. She staunchly forced herself not to ask his Lordship to obtain any news of her family, lest she find the truth too painful to continue in her life of lies.

Nana's array of lovers was as impressive as Lizzy's, and those men were even more fatally devoted to her than Isabella Caraggio's admirers. Nana's flippant behavior towards these men seemed to do little to discourage their affections, and Lizzy internally smiled at the validation of her dear mentor Carolina's advice.

Nana's home was always open to Lizzy, and she was accustomed to arriving unannounced. One afternoon, as Lizzy entered her friend's sitting room, she beheld a spectacular sight.

Nana, holding a whip in her hand, stood regally over a man's bare buttocks. The man, bent over the settee, was clearly very tall and well-built, and had the most luscious dark curls. His face was turned away from her, with only the outline of his aristocratic nose faintly visible to Lizzy. The man looked so much like Fitzwilliam Darcy, or like her distorted memory of him, that for a moment Lizzy forgot to breath.

Nana swiftly hit the whip against the man's bottom, and Lizzy let out an audible gasp.

"Ah, Isabella, _ma chere_!" Nana greeted her cheerfully. Lizzy saw the man tense at having a witness, but he remained in his submissive position. "_Mon petit Chevalier_ has been such a naughty boy lately, and absolutely needs to be punished. And who am I to refuse, eh? It is such a pleasure to thrash a good looking man! Don't you find?"

"I – I – do not know, Nana," Lizzy murmured, still entranced by the man.

"Have you never tried whipping a man, _ma cherie_? _Mon Dieu_, you must try it now! Come, help me discipline _mon Chevalier_!"

In a trance, Lizzy took the whip that Nana offered. She hit it lightly against the man's proffered buttocks, then harder, then harder still. As she imagined that the man before her – who had turned out to be a young French Chevalier – was the man whom she had loved and whom she hated, she thrashed him with fury and vigor. When at last Nana stepped up and took the whip out of her hand, Lizzy's face was flush with heat and her core wet with desire. The last piece of the puzzle that was Lizzy Bennet had been revealed to herself.

Later, Nana made her recount her entire history, having witnessed her friend's uncharacteristic frenzy and having divined that there was more to it than simple whipping of an unknown man. Lizzy confessed it all. In her typical fashion, Nana's first reaction was laughter:

"My, my! _Mon pauvre Chevalier_ really had to pay for that Mr. Darcy's sins. Had I not stopped you, there would have been naught left of his poor buttocks! Lucky for you, he adores such treatment – in truth, he could have stopped it had he not wished it to continue. Still, it is best that you do not thrash men in quite such a temper; let yourself be at least somewhat collected… not that I am one to speak."

Lizzy nodded thoughtfully. Carolina would have been both excited and appalled at Lizzy's actions. Excited because at last Lizzy truly let go and learned her innermost desires. Appalled, because a woman of their profession must always remain in control.

"You should go back to England, and capture your Mr. Darcy, and give him the thrashing that he so clearly needs and that you so clearly want to give."

Lizzy sighed. _If only._

"You don't know him, Nana. He is the most proud, proper young man. If you had only seen the look on his face as he spurned me. And that was when I was but an innocent gentlewoman in love! To imagine that he would lower himself to engage with a courtesan, let alone to be _whipped _by one – no, that is unfathomable!"

Silly, irreverent Nana turned serious.

"I may not know your Mr. Darcy, Isabella, but I do know men, even better than you, if I may be so bold as to boast. What you have described sounds an awful lot like a recent ardent admirer of mine. Have you heard of the Count Muffat?"

Lizzy had, indeed, heard of the unfortunate Count. His unhealthy attachment to Nana, coupled with his wife's adultery and his own previously proper, pious ways, had made him a laughingstock of French society.

At Lizzy's brief nod, Nana continued: "He, too, was a proud and proper man. And look at him now! But that is just the thing, _ma petite cherie_: these men, these proud, proper, _repressed _men are the ones that suffer the most spectacular falls, with the right inducement. If your Mr. Darcy is as arrogant and above it all as you portray him, then he has been exerting an inordinate amount of self-control all his life, and it will take but a minor provocation – but a very well executed one, mind you – to make him combust. And when he does combust, _ma cherie_, it will be monumental, spectacular! And you can make of him what you will."

"I do not know, Nana. This sounds so very fantastical."

"It is life. Men are the same everywhere: they are proud creatures and fond of control. But at the end, they want to worship a woman. And the more proud, the more in control the man is, the more delicious he finds it to eventually cease that control to the woman he loves."

Lizzy remained quiet and thoughtful. Wistfully, she wondered if Nana might be correct.

Nana, in an uncharacteristic bout of philosophy, was not yet finished.

"You have to keep in mind a woman's nature, too, however," she spoke almost sadly. "Once you have your Mr. Darcy on his knees doing your bidding, you will not derive from it the pleasure you expect. You will want him gone as soon as he is yours. God knows I have been wanting Count Muffat gone for months! The more you scorn him, at that point, the more will he be willing to tolerate, and the more will he want to stay. And you, in turn, will grow colder and harsher."

Wide-eyed, Lizzy could not believe a word her friend was saying. _To have my former love, my cruel tormentor, under my full control? How could I possible _not _enjoy that?_

"It would be better for you, _ma cherie_, to forget your Fitzwilliam Darcy and to be happy. You will not attain true happiness from his misery, no matter how cruel he has been to you. Follow your pleasure, not your pain, if you wish to ever be content."

And then, silly Nana returned and replaced the rare philosophical Nana. And Lizzy was momentarily distracted from her unwelcome thoughts of the one man whom – and here Nana was right – she should simply never think about again.


	3. Her Return

_"That woman, as nature has created her and as man is at present educating her, is his enemy. She can only be his slave or his despot, but never his companion. This she can become only when she has the same rights as he, and is his equal in education and work."_

_\- _Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, _Venus in Furs_

"I have decided to return to England." She was glad to hear that her voice, controlled and even as always, did not quiver. It would not do to give any external indication of her worries. He had brought her here. He had given her everything she had in this strange new life. Would he let her go?

Lord Drenson had been basking in their post-coital bliss with her legs on his lap, languidly stroking the delicate arches of her feet. He abruptly ceased his ministrations. "When?"

The slight note of panic, desperate yet resigned, in his voice soothed her worries. He would not attempt to make her stay. Nonchalantly, Lizzy shrugged her shoulders. "In one or two months, perhaps. I will travel with Lord Sarry."

"I see." And then, after an interminable pause, with a note of concern: "You are not thinking of taking on an exclusive arrangement with him, are you, my dear?"

She laughed. "No, of course, not, your Lordship. I have learned well. From you, and Carolina, and my new Parisian friends. I know full well what a dangerously heedless thing it would be to put my livelihood in the hands of _one _man."

From the genuinely relieved expression on Lord Drenson's face, Lizzy wondered not for the first time how much the older man cared for her beyond their weekly trysts. _Could he have developed a tendre for me? No, impossible. Lord Drenson, the Dom Juan of London, perpetual bachelor? Perhaps instead he views me as the daughter he had never had._

She announced her favorable verdict to Lord Sarry in a much different manner.

"Come here, my pet." His Lordship left the table where he had been so eloquently displaying his recently thrashed behind, lowered himself onto all fours, and made his way to kneel before her. "My, my, someone is an eager pet!" She exclaimed, stroking her slippered foot up and down his prominent erection.

"Please, Mistress, please may I have a release?" He begged so prettily, that Lizzy smiled.

"Hmmm. Do you think you deserve one?"

"Yes, Mistress! I have been a good boy."

"Why do you think so? Tell me all the good things you have done, my pet."

"I – I did not touch myself for the past seven days, Mistress. I have been attentive and obedient, and took my discipline well. And I have brought you the sapphire earrings. They cost me over two hundred pounds."

That was a large sum indeed. Lizzy's usual patrons did not gift her more than a hundred pounds per month, often less. Lord Sarry had been exceptionally generous. In that, as well as in his _proclivities_, he was an eccentric. Fortunately for his Lordship, a title and an enormous estate were enough to make any eccentricity deemed "charming" and "fashionable." Lord Sarry liked to frequent an imperious Italian courtesan? Why, that only made her more popular among the other men. Lord Sarry liked the courtesan to thrash and demean him? Lizzy was amused at the frequency with which her other visitors began to demand similar services after his Lordship's arrival in Paris six months prior.

"You have been a good boy indeed, your Lordship," Lizzy praised in a singsong voice. "I believe you have truly earned a reward. Which would you like –"

"A release, please, a release, my Mistress!"

She laughed. "I have not even finished reciting your options, my dear."

He grinned. "But nothing is sweeter than a release from your hand, my Mistress."

"Truly? So you would rather have a release now than see me travel back to London with you?"

The excited widening of his eyes pleased her. "You will go with me?"

"Well, that depends. If you still prefer a release…"

"No, no, please! I can wait another week, month even. I would be delighted to show you London." He had been begging her to come back to England with him for the past two months, ever since he decided that his absence had been long enough and he had to return to his homeland to manage his estate's affairs. In truth, Lord Sarry's sojourn to Paris had been meant to last only two or three months, had it not been for his encounter with the lovely Signorina Caraggio.

"Well, then, to London I shall go." Delighted, her lover began placing feverish kisses on her knees, imbetween ardent exclamations of gratitude. To be safe, Lizzy felt compelled to offer the clarification: "I will not be going to England as your exclusive mistress; I hope that much is clear, your Lordship. We can continue the relationship we have established here, but I will also continue to accept other protectors."

He lifted his head and offered her a cheeky grin. "I wouldn't have it any other way, my Mistress."

Lizzy heaved a sigh of relief, and allowed herself to enjoy her time with Lord Sarry. He was an exceedingly handsome man, not particularly tall but very well built, with a luscious mop of copper-colored her and piercing blue eyes. He was wealthy and influential, raucous and jolly in company, and he adored dominant women. The first time he had seen Isabella Caraggio scan the room with an imperious gaze, he had been sold. The first time he had offered her a hundred pounds to serve as her slave for three days, _she_ had been sold on _him_. He had been the first gentleman whom she had thrashed since Nana's _Chevalier_. Until then, she had exercised her penchant on her dear Johnny, and Claude, a boy she had hired in Paris.

Lord Drenson came to see her two weeks prior to her planned date of departure. He gave her a neatly wrapped parcel, but refused the invitation to ascend to her bedchamber.

"I have come to take my leave, Miss Bennet," he stated formally, but she noted a certain warmth infused into her old name.

"Already, your Lordship? I am not to depart for another fortnight!"

"Aye, but _I _will be departing tonight."

She raised a questioning brow. He slimed softly, and elaborated:

"Since you will be traveling back to London and there will not be much holding me in Paris, I have decided to return to the _palazzo_."

She tried to make sense of his words. Until he said it, she had not even thought to remark on the fact that he had not, to her knowledge, taken any other lovers during their nearly three years together. Yet remarkable that fact most certainly was. Lord Drenson, the man who was known to change his mistresses more often than other gentlemen changed their gloves – had he really been involved only with _her _all these years? Lizzy did not like the feelings this notion produced in her, so she chose not to dwell on it.

"I hope you enjoy your time back in the _palazzo_, your Lordship," she responded politely. "I have fond memories of our stay there with Carolina." That much was true; however painful some of the recollections of her early transformation might be, she had genuinely liked and admired Carolina.

Lord Drenson smiled. "I will be sure to pass your regards to her. She will be coming to stay with me."

Lizzy's eyes widened. _Now that is unexpected! _"Truly, your Lordship? I cannot pretend not to be surprised, but I am certainly glad for you both."

"Indeed. We had reestablished a connection of sorts during your training, and I cannot think of a better fit for the role of my companion in old age."

Lizzy was pleased. For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to indulge in a genuine feeling of affection. "I am so very happy for you both, your Lordship! I hope you find every manner of comfort, happiness, and contentment."

"I hope so too." He regarded her thoughtfully, then offered more: "Do you know why I never married, my dear? No, of course, you do not. I am sterile, unable to produce offspring. In a society like ours, that is the sole purpose of marriage. _Companionship _is better sought among courtesans and mistresses, who are encouraged in some ways to be our equals, not our subordinates. I could never bring myself to settle down with a single woman whom I would then, for all intents and purposes, own. I chose instead to engage with women that remained free, or as close to free as our world would allow. They left me. I left them. We were, in some ways, equals. As I grow older, however, I cannot help but yearn for a more committed relationship. I still despise the institution of marriage, and thankfully Carolina and I are in agreement on that. But a constant companion with whom to share my life in the Italian countryside does sound… agreeable. I hope I can make her happy, and be at least content in return."

Lizzy smiled and nodded, unsure of how else to respond. She felt that there was something else his Lordship was not saying, but he had shared enough and she did not wish to probe.

He gave her one piercing last look, so full of sorrow and longing that Lizzy knew not what to make of it. He bent over her hand, and with a soft "Farewell" he quit her townhouse.

After Lord Drenson's departure, Lizzy firmly instructed her butler that she would not be seeing any gentleman callers that evening. Nor did she ask for Johnny or Claude to attend her alone in the evening. For the first time in years, Lizzy Bennet decided against sexual pleasure as the antidote to her sorrow. In the solitude of her study, she attempted to sort through the conflicting emotions within her.

_Is his Lordship correct?_

In some ways, yes, he most certainly was. _As always_. He had made her into an independent woman. He had, indeed, effectively saved her from becoming the chattel of another man. _Was that not why I came to him in the first place? To avoid being shackled to the first stranger willing to take me with my ruined reputation?_

She was self-sufficient now, and wealthy beyond anything she could have imagined in her humble life as a country gentleman's daughter. She regularly interacted with some of the highest nobility in Europe. She kept an impressive staff of servants, including a hand-picked group of footmen eager to be used for her pleasure. She set her own rules, and whipped and commanded some of the most influential men. She set her own prices, and chose her own clients.

Yet a price was always set. Every crisp note of francs or pounds, every ruby or sapphire, served as a painful reminder of what she had become: a woman for sale.

A small idealistic part of Lizzy Bennet still yearned for a different kind of companionship. It was impossible, she knew, for as Lord Drenson had said, wives were even less equals than courtesans. But when had _impossibility_ ever deterred humans from yearning?

Two weeks later, aboard a grand ship in Lord Sarry's solicitous company, Isabella Caraggio firmly extinguished these last vestiges of Lizzy Bennet. She would return to England a conqueror, not the naïve little girl she had been when she left.

Her first opportunity to conquer the true object of her invasion arose three weeks after her return. At the grand box of Lord Sarry in the Opera house, she felt her breath catch. In the box right next to theirs, she beheld the man whom she despised as ardently as she had once loved him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy looked as dashing as she remembered him, but even more somber, his face set in even grimmer and harsher lines. She mentally calculated that he must be seven and twenty years of age, and remarked that he was the most severe man of twenty-seven she had ever set eyes on. His hair was just as full, his nose just as straight, his height just as impressive, and his eyes just as dark as she recalled, however. He was a fine specimen, and Lizzy yearned to have him under her control. All those other men she had bedded and pleasured and whipped and ridden seemed to recede into oblivion as she beheld the one man whom she had wanted for what felt like forever. Did she still want him? She did not know. But the desire to conquer him, to own him, to show him all that he had been missing because of his own callous actions, was ingrained into her every cell.

During the intermission, when Lord Sarry left to procure her refreshments, she noted Mr. Darcy and his companions, an older couple, three other gentlemen, and a young lady, stand to leave their box. She did not know what madness possessed her, but she felt the overwhelming temptation to throw herself into his path.

She barely had a chance to step out of her box, however, when she felt the very man who had been occupying her thoughts for the duration of the first act collide into her. The shock caused her to drop the elaborate fan she had been holding.

Practiced, experienced, controlled, Lizzy immediately collected herself. "Excuse me, sir," she addressed him in a cool tone.

He gave her a quick, disinterested glance, and made a move to continue walking.

Incensed, Lizzy lifted her chin, and raised her voice slightly. "My fan, sir?"

"Madam?" His gaze full of confusion, he gave her a longer look now.

"In your hasty steps that nearly swept me off my feet, sir, you appear to have dislodged my fan from my hand." She looked down, indicating the fan on the ground. For added emphasis, the slim tip of her right foot left the confines of her resplendent gown to point to the object.

She expected him to bend down and retrieve her possession. It turned out, however, that Mr. Darcy's manners were as abominable as she remembered them to be. He frowned, and dismissed her with: "You should keep a firmer hold on your possessions in future, madam."

She felt her eyes widen slightly in indignation, but did not give any other outward signs of the fury building slowly within her. Instead, she merely raised an elegant brow, and was about to chastise the insufferable man, when one of his companions, a handsome man in his mid thirties, bent down elegantly, and retrieved her fan.

"I apologize profusely for my cousin's rudeness, madam! Duke of Montegue at your service." He gave her an exaggerated bow.

She gave the Duke a brilliant smile. "I thank you profusely for your assistance, sir, but I would request that in future you refrain from offering your services before they are requested. I was attempting to teach your companion some manners, and you have entirely spoiled the lesson." She saw the Duke's eyes brighten with pleasure, and his mouth open to respond, but she did not give him a chance. "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen." With that swift dismissal, she returned to her box, missing the look of perplexed interest on Fitzwilliam Darcy's face.

She did not see Mr. Darcy for over a month after that first disastrous re-encounter, but the Duke of Montegue called on her two days after the Opera. She had by then learned that the Duke of Montegue was the brother of Lady Amelia, who had recently married the eldest son of the Earl of Matlock. The very same Earl of Matlock who had a certain despicable Mr. Fitziwlliam Darcy for a nephew.

She descended the stairs in her usual regal manner, and greeted her caller coolly: "Sir? I did not expect to see you here."

The Duke of Montegue gave her a charming smile. "Did you not? After the way you bewitched me at the Opera the other night, what could I do but call on you?"

"I do not believe we have had a proper introduction, sir," she remarked sternly.

"Aye, the introduction was entirely one sided. You left before I had a chance to learn your name. But your presence in my friend Sarry's box that evening proved most fortuitous for my attempts at learning your identity."

"You enquired after me to Lord Sarry?" Now she was mildly intrigued.

The Duke laughed brightly. "Oh yes! Ever since he returned from the continent, good old Sarry has been buzzing the ears off of anyone willing to listen about the delightful creature he brought back with him! I see now that he was not exaggerating."

Lizzy wondered at what exactly it was that his Lordship had told his friends about her. Knowing Lord Sarry's jovial and open nature, she guessed that he did not keep much hidden. Emboldened, Lizzy decided to probe: "His Lordship has been boasting about me? That is a very poor-mannered thing to do! I shall have to discipline him most severely the next time I see him."

She noted the Duke lick his lips, his eyes a fraction darker. _Ah-ha! So he _does _know everything about me and Lord Sarry! And it seems that that only adds to my appeal in his eyes._ She gave her visitor an appraising look. He was by no means an ill-looking man. While not as handsome as his Lordship, he was taller, more refined and stately, which she found appealing in a man. _Yes, he would do very well indeed. I wonder what his particular penchant is_.

Before he had a chance to form a response, she decided to reel him in further: "On second thought, it is even more rude to come barging into a lady's house on the pretext of sordid tales exchanged at a gentleman's club. Shame on you, your Grace, for contributing to the spread of such rumors! You, too, are in dire need of correction."

He caught her meaning immediately, and came right up to her, taking her hand in his. "Oh yes, Signorina. I am in most dire need of discipline, indeed. Would you be so kind as to administer it?"

_Oh yes, I will, your Grace. For the right price, of course._

"Mmm, do you think there is a chance that a simple girl's discipline would restore you to behave properly?" She quirked a teasing eyebrow.

"A simple girl's discipline – no, absolutely not. But an experienced lady like yourself, I am sure, can teach even a naughty boy like me to behave."

"And what discipline works best on a naughty boy like you, your Grace? Lord Sarry responds well to the whip and occasionally to the cane. His behavior improves markedly when he is made to serve me tea in the nude and when I ride his manhood."

From their close proximity, she could see the Duke swallow hard. It appeared that her words were producing the desired effect.

"A naughty boy like me, madam, is best disciplined by the use of his tongue to pleasure his corrector's womanhood and to worship her lovely feet. You have no idea how much I yearned to place a kiss at the tip of your beautiful slipper when I bent to retrieve your fan the other night."

She smiled. "Oh, I think I do have a very good idea, your Grace. I hope you are aware that a boy as terribly naughty as you will need to pay quite handsomely for anyone to take on the tremendously difficult task of his correction."

His eyes were burning into her with their intensity. "How much?" She liked his directness.

"How often would you like to serve me?"

"Twice weekly, at the least. Aside from these intimate meetings, I would like to see you socially at least once a week."

"No more than an hour at a time for the intimate meetings, and no more than three times per week. Social events will be at least once a fortnight, but I will do my best to accommodate you once per week. You will also have a standing invitation to any events I will host. One hundred pounds per month would do."

"A hundred pounds? Is that not rather steep, madam?"

She gave him a cheeky little smile. "That is for you to decide, your Grace. I have named my terms, you may take or leave them."

She was smiling and she spoke lightly, but there was an edge to her tone. She would not bulge. The Duke appeared to like her confidence. "Very well, Signorina. I look forward to learning proper behavior at your feet. When shall we commence my training?"

"I will be delighted to provide the discipline you require, your Grace. Please speak with my butler to arrange the meetings; he should know my calendar."

And with a brief curtsy, she dismissed him.

Lord Sarry's wagging tongue indeed proved a boon. Once both he and the Duke of Montegue showed their preference for her, Lizzy had no shortage of gentleman callers. She took on two others, the Earl of Palsy and Baron Duffenger, as constant clients. Both were delighted by her coolness and confidence, though neither had the penchants for female discipline that Lord Sarry and the Duke of Montegue displayed. The Earl preferred being ridden by her and taken into her mouth. The Baron seemed to enjoy their intimate encounters agnostically. Without a marked preference for any particular position, he loved her sumptuous breasts and delighted in all of their passion, but especially preferred their discussions of French and Italian literature.

With each of her patrons, Lizzy shared her bed and her study alike. She teased them, she debated with them, she pleasured them. They seemed, on the whole, quite pleased, and insisted on her company outside of her abode. Lizzy accompanied each man to social gatherings every one or two weeks, but she was especially attentive to the Duke of Montegue's invitations. She refused to admit to herself the reason behind this preference: his relationship to Fitzwilliam Darcy and the chance that she might see her former tormentor at one of those events.

A month after she and the Duke had reached their agreement, she did indeed behold the insufferable man at Montegue's dinner. She noticed the way Darcy frowned and narrowed his eyes in displeasure when he beheld her. She returned his gaze with a challenging one of her own, allowing all of her distaste for the man to surface in that one eloquent look. He appeared taken aback and dropped his gaze.

Lizzy thought it was in consideration of her that the Duke chose to forego the customary separation of the sexes. Indeed, it would have been a torture to tolerate the disapproving company of the righteous ladies, Lady Matlock and Lady Amelia. Lizzy was grateful to his Grace for sparing her this discomfort and made a mental note to reward his consideration later. _Sensuous strokes of my toes on his manhood until his release should do the trick._

She went in search of the Duke, who appeared to have quit the room some minutes prior, to apprise him of his impending reward in a sensual whisper. She was smiling at the anticipation of his reaction, and was too distracted to note the two men stood right outside the door in the hallway.

"What were you thinking, Montegue, by bringing _that _woman here? Are you out of your mind, to be subjecting your sister and my aunt to her presence?"

"Darcy, you are being ridiculous! It is perfectly acceptable for men to host their mistresses together with their relatives and friends, and Isabella Caraggio is a very accomplished young lady."

Incensed, Lizzy recalled another time when she had overhead Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy comment on her person. Back then, she was young and inexperienced and in love. She had forgiven him the moment he had injured her, never needing an apology. She had been stupid enough to change _herself _after his criticism.

Well, no more. She had had enough, and she snapped. She walked right up to them, and addressed her lover in the coldest, most imperious tone she could muster:

"Mr dear, Mr. Darcy is absolutely correct. I do not know what you were thinking – inviting the two of us to dinner together. Indeed, I cannot be pleased to see you associate with men as poorly behaved as he is. After all the time I spend on disciplining you, it displeases me to see you associate with a boy as naughty as him."

She did not know whether it was her scathing tone, or her scandalous words, or her blazing look of fury that produced the reaction. But she was sure that she did not imagine the blush on Mr. Darcy's cheeks or the confused yet curious look in his eyes. She did not deign him with anything more than a cursory glance.

"I am taking my leave, your Grace. And I expect never again to see _this _man at future social engagements at your home."

With a nasty look at his cousin, the Duke of Montegue extended his profuse apologies and helped his mistress don on her coat. As she was departing, Lizzy passively noted that Fitzwilliam Darcy had not moved from the place where he had stood. She was astonished to realize how little she cared.

True to his word and her command, the Duke of Montegue did not invite her to events where his cousin was also present. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had not received the same decree. By some ironic twist of face, she found herself seated next to him at dinner at the Whiterose Annual Ball, the very place where she had first met him four years prior. She was in a foul mood, the memory of her past life too vivid and painful to ignore. So instead she ignored _him_, or the few attempts at conversation he had deigned to make.

She spoke instead to Lord Sarry, who had brought her to the event, and the Baron Duffenger, who occupied the seat across from her. They were discussing literature, and in her ill temper, Lizzy decided to throw out the most preposterous opinions:

"Romance novels? Indeed, your Lordship, I find that to be the most ridiculous notion! I do sometimes wonder who first discovered the efficacy of writing in driving away love."

"I have been used to consider romantic writing as the _food _of love," Darcy remarked seriously from her left.

Sighing in frustration at once again being addressed by the insufferable man, Lizzy forced herself to quirk a brow and put on a cool yet teasing smile.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a young, idealist sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good love letter will drive its object entirely away."

She was pleased to note his face clouded at the veiled reference. She had no fear that he recognized her, but she wondered if perhaps, right at this moment, he was remembering the girl she had once been. _What does he think of the poor Elizabeth Bennet? What did he think four years ago? Did he rejoice in his escape? Did he mourn, even for a moment, her presumed death? _

She felt herself grow even angrier, and she did not like it. She tried to remember Carolina, and all that the older woman had taught her. _Master your emotions, Lizzy!_

"Is there not a single romance that you have enjoyed, Signorina?" The Baron enquired politely. She knew how much he enjoyed her literary opinions.

"Oh, on the contrary, there are several of which I am quite fond. Love letters do not serve to grow affection, and romance novels are quite frivolous, ridiculous things. But humans are frivolous, ridiculous creatures, and I do not believe there is a single one among us who does not enjoy a good love story."

"Which is your favorite, Signorina?" The question came from Lord Sarry, and she took a few moments to gaze into his clear blue eyes, comforted by their softness of familiarity. Slowly, her irritation ebbed away.

"I have always been partial to _L'Histoire du chevalier des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut_."

"That is a tale of vice, not love." Apparently, the insufferable Mr. Darcy continued to take part in their conversation.

She was provoked enough to continue to respond to him. "How so?"

"The male protagonist gives up every pretense of duty, self-respect, and propriety, only to engage in a sordid affair with an unfaithful woman. His name, his reputation, his familial pride – everything is ruined for the sake of passion out of wedlock."

She laughed. "Precisely. _That _is what I call love. I am bored to tears by the customary romantic tales: the powerful hero saves an innocent maiden and makes her his wife. What is so special about that? Only a man devoid of feeling would _not _love a young, naïve, kind-hearted girl. Only a _monster _would hurt an innocent."

She saw his eyes narrow, studying her. _Did I say too much_?

Fortunately, he stayed on the topic of the book they were discussing.

"And yet, in those tales you so despise, the hero at least marries that maiden. In your preferred treatise, the _Chevalier_ takes Manon without the protection of wedlock."

She laughed harshly. "As you have said yourself, Mr. Darcy, he sacrifices _everything _for her. He is young and devoted and hers, and would marry her if she so desired. Instead, he sacrifices his own family, reputation, and honor, to be hers on her terms. He even recognizes that he cannot provide for all of her needs and forgives her indiscretions. _That _is how a man loves."

She turned away from him then, and refused to speak to him for the rest of the evening.

The next time she saw him, they were both out riding in Hyde Park. He slowed his horse and tipped his head in greeting. She remembered the day, so long ago that it felt like it had not happened to her, when he had not slowed his horse on time. She did not return his greeting. She cut him. Overtaken by sorrow and anger and pain at her recollection, she spurred her horse on with a wide flick of the riding crop that landed firmly on Darcy's taut thigh. Her horse picked up speed immediately, and she did not get a chance to note the gentleman's burning gaze after her.

Two days later, at the weekly soiree she hosted for her patrons and other prominent gentlemen, she was surprised to see him, uncertain and uncomfortable, nursing a glass of brandy in the corner and regarding her with an intense gaze.

"Your Grace," she approached the Duke of Montegue, her tone harsh. "What is your cousin doing here?"

The Duke seemed confused. Scanning the room, he noticed Darcy and blanched. "I do not know, madam. I swear that I was not the one to have invited him."

Mr. Darcy had approached upon noticing their interaction, and supplied:

"Please do not be cross with my cousin, madam. He was unaware of my coming here. I had asked Duffenger for the direction." Before she had a chance to protest his presence, he extended a neatly wrapped package towards her: "Of course, I have not come empty-handed."

She felt an urge to tell him that a present was not enough to gain admission to her parlor without an invitation. She wished to throw him out. But she did not want to cause a scene, and she felt an even more overwhelming urge to drive him out in a more subtle manner. She decided to shock him.

Turning a saccharine smile onto the Duke, she pronounced: "I am very relieved to see that you have not disobeyed me, your Grace. If you wish, I would be delighted to reward you. Come."

She had the Duke sit on the footstool next to her place on the settee, and, slipping off her satin slippers, extended her feet to his lap. Obligingly, Montegue thanked her and began to massage and kiss the offering.

_What do you think of this, Mr. Darcy? Is that what you expected to find in my drawing room – your stately cousin, the Duke, caressing my feet?_

As Lizzy had expected, Darcy regarded the spectacle with a severe, displeased expression. He excused himself shortly thereafter. She felt both relief and disappointment at his departure, and sincerely hoped not to see him again. For years, Lizzy Bennet had wished to meet Fitzwilliam Darcy again and have her revenge. Now that she felt herself close to cracking him, now that he had come, for whatever mysterious reason, as far as her courtesan drawing room, she realized that he was more trouble than he was worth. No victory could be grand enough to compensate every pang of hurt she felt in his presence. No revenge could be sweet enough to make up for the unpleasantness of feeling hatred. Nana had been right: it was best to let go of the past and of this man.

* * *

**Oh dear sweet Lizzy, what have you become? And what does that former flame of yours think of it all? We shall see some of _his _perspective in the next chapter...**


	4. Her Turn

_"All of a sudden, in the good-natured child, the woman stood revealed, a disturbing woman with all the impulsive madness of her sex, opening the gates of the unknown world of desire. [She] was still smiling, but with the deadly smile of a man-eater."_

― Émile Zola, _Nana_

_"I love you… I love you… I love you…"_

_She was stood all alone in the Park, her arms outstretched towards him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes beseaching._

_He tried to go to her, he considered comforting her, but just as he took a tentative step towards her, he saw her face transform from its vulnerable expression of love to a stony facede of despise._

_The girl was a woman now, suddenly atop a horse. A whip in her hand, she lashed it harshly across his face. _

_Next to her, the phantom of the little girl was falling, shrinking, disintegrating into thin air. "I love you…" He voice was small and plaintiff, as she was slowly dying._

_Before the girl's phantom had a chance to fully disappear, the woman urged the horse with her whip, and the steed trampled on the last wisps of the girl's incorporeal form._

_"Only a monster would hurt an innocent." _

_He felt cold terror grip him at the woman's words, at her accusing gaze. And then he was struck with an incongruous realization._

_"You have the same eyes."_

_She only laughed in response, with a laughter so hollow and bitter that it gripped his heart with its chill. The disembodied girl's soft, melodious chuckle melted with the woman's joyless laughter, and he thought it the most divinely tortuous combination._

Darcy awoke from the nightmare in cold sweat, and rose from his bed, pacing the length of his bedchamber in the faint moonlight. He was clearly going insane.

The past months had been maddening. Ever since he first beheld Isabella Caraggio in the Opera house five months prior, he had felt drawn to her. He knew what she was; her arrival with Lord Sarry had been a widely publicized event. She was well educated and stately and beautiful, and a new favorite among the gentlemen at his club. It was an entirely acceptable thing for the men of his acquaintance to keep mistresses and pursue coutesans. Yet his sense of decorum and propriety had always rebelled against the notion. And now he rebelled against the attraction he was developing for the fiesty Italian.

It was not her beauty, although she was certainly beautiful, that attracted him to her. It was her impeccable grace and comportment and the fact that _she _never sought to win favor with _him_. She had spurned him as much as he had spurned her at Montegue's dinner. And while he felt justified in his rudeness towards her, who was _she _to treat him so? The way she had called him a _naughty boy_, after so scandalously speaking about her relationship with his cousin right in the open, disturbed him. And confused him. And kept coming back to his mind.

He was faintly aware of the type of relations his new cousin had with this woman. Lord Sarry's escapades were much more widely discussed, but the Duke of Montegue's preference for strict mistresses was also common knowledge. Darcy found the idea of taking on a kept woman for discipline at once disgusting and intriguing.

He soon learned that she was well versed in the arts and literature, and had unorthodox but compelling views on social mores and politics. She spoke eloquently. She comported herself with dignity. She had the most intelligent pair of fine eyes that he was pleased to note shone with a special fire whenever she looked at him.

She had cut him. The place on his right thigh where her riding crop had landed as she spurred her steed away from him in Hyde Park still burned with the ghost a peculiarly pleasant sensation.

Altogether, he was going mad, and allowed this madness to take him as far as her drawing room during the previous evening. He had told himself that he was only going out of curiosity, to see what it was that kept all these worthy men enthralled at her house. When he saw her stockinged feet rest on his cousin's lap and felt the strange urge to _beg_ to join in caressing them, he realized that it was not safe to remain there a moment longer.

Alas, he was no more safe at his home than at hers. What was the meaning of his dream? He had dreamt sporadically of Elizabeth Bennet's heart-wrenching pleas for years. When he had first learned of the poor girl's death, he felt a flicker of guilt but had extinguished it immediately. _He _was not responsible for her, he had told himself. She had been stupid and careless, and he had done what he must to avoid entrapment into marriage.

Yet his subconscious did not agree. _I did not have to expose her so callously_. At first, the nightmares had occurred almost weekly, then monthly. He hated them and resented them and kept telling himself that he had _not _done wrong. Perhaps he had not handled the situation in the best manner, but he had been provoked, had he not?

After a year, Georgiana's elopement and subsequent death from an illness she had caught in George Wickham's poor care on the way to Scotland had effectively distracted him from the memories of Elizabeth Bennet and the guilt that he kept telling himself was not his to feel.

He had too much tragedy in his life to mourn a young lady so wholly unconnected to him.

For the past three years, the nightmares were only occasional. Sometimes, he would see her young, scared, tear-streaked face in his other nightmares. His troubled dreams of his sister, in particular, were prone to morphing into those of the young girl. Poor dying Georgiana under Wickham's vile power would transform into poor dying Miss Bennet under his own, and he would be angry at his mind for forming that connection when he would wake.

But now, now another subconscious connection had been formed. Having seen it in his dream, he could not shake the recollection in real life. They did have the same eyes.

_Is that why I find Isabella's fine, intelligent eyes so captivating? Because they remind me of the girl who, through her love and her death, has left such an indelible mark on my conscience?_

He did not know, but after this disturbing dream, he felt an even stronger urge to unravel the mystery that was Isabella Caraggio. Against his duty, reason, upbringing, against his better judgment, he began calling on her and attending her soirees.

He mostly stood in the background, observing her interactions with the other men. She was imperious towards all of her lovers, but some were treated with more authority than others. The Earl of Palsy and Baron Duffenger were always respectful and deferential towards her, but received mostly cordial treatment in return. Lord Sarry and the Duke of Montegue were much more likely to be at the receiving end of her humiliating commands and verbal chastisement. Surprisingly, it was these latter gentleman whom, in his fevered lustful mind, he envied the most.

She was refined and educated, and well versed in the ways of the English gentry. Her knowledge of not only French and Italian literature, but his native writers was impressive. She had the most delightful Italian accent in her speech, but once, when he came to call on her and before he was announced, he overheard her order her footman in the cleanest English, in a voice that, without the Italian tint, sounded eerily familiar.

He wondered; he guessed; he yearned to know. And with it, he felt himself develop an increasing fascination with this woman. He was not merely curious anymore. He was bordering on obsessed.

He brought her pearls and rubies and sapphires, and she received him with cordial indifference. He stopped short of asking to become her patron, persisting in fooling himself that curiosity was his main aim in attending her evenings of entertainment. Watching the other men fight for her favors and knowing that at the end of each night, some lucky gentleman went to bed her, simultaneously roused his interest and made him feel sick.

Having finished his midday meal at the club, Darcy rose and bade his companions adieu.

"Where are you off to, Darcy? I was hoping we might go for a ride together." Charles Bingley was a jovial, amiable, bright young man, and one of Darcy's closest friends.

"What a question, Bingley! Haven't you heard? Twice a week on the dot, at this time, Darcy gets his taste of the delightful Isabella Caraggio."

Darcy saw Charles frown and shoot him a quizzical look. _Damn you, Montegue. You don't need to publicize this to my friends!_

"Truly, Darcy? How come you have never introduced me to your favorite?"

"She is not my favorite. It is nothing."

"Nothing, eh, Darce?" It appeared that Montegue was not finished mortifying him. "Tell me, has she whipped your naughty bottom yet? Or do you, like myself, prefer to serve her in other ways?"

Charles Bingley's eyes at this point were as wide as saucers. _Damn damn damn_.

"I beg that you cease at once, Montegue. I find this sort of talk…" _Intriguing? Entrancing? Arousing? _"Disgusting."

"Ah, so you are not so much into the lovely Isabella's domination? Do you prefer to simply allow her to pleasure you, like good old Duffenger?"

"Enough!" Darcy roared, suppressing the stirring of desire that threatened to emerge. He scowled at Montegue's laughing face. "If you must know, I have not the slightest intention of engaging in any such amoral activities with Signorina Caraggio."

If possible, Montegue only laughed harder. "You have met the lady at the same time as I, seven months ago. If I am not mistaken, for the the past three of those months you have been attending her social gatherings and calling on her quite religiously. And don't think that I haven't noticed the little 'trinkets' you bring. Are you trying to tell me that you gift her with rubies and do not demand any favors in return?"

"Precisely. I am merely curious." With that, Darcy hastily excused himself.

On the way to the courtesan's house, he tried desperately to convince himself of the truth of his words. It _was_, of course – it had to be! – mere curiosity that was driving him. Curiosity about a courtesan who could debate literature better than most of the men of his acquaintance. Curiosity about a pair of fine eyes so reminiscent of the girl he had once ruined. Curiosity about a woman who could stir in him desire like nothing he had ever felt before. Curiosity and nothing more.

Try as he might, he could not rid himself of the mental image of Montegue's laughing face and Bingley's perturbed one, and of the sense that he was fatally deceiving himself.

_What on earth am I doing? Is morbid curiosity worth this degradation?_

He had determined to see her for the very last time. The butler informed him that she was occupied with a caller in the sitting room, and took him to wait in her study. With nothing better to occupy his time, instead of giving way to painful imaginings of her private activities with the other caller, he perused the items on her desk. There was a well-worn copy of an original Italian edition of Machiavelli's _Il Principe_. There was a beautiful bejeweled paperweight, most likely a present from one of her admirers. There was an unsent letter.

_No, this cannot be_.

The handwriting was painfully familiar. It had been four years, but the gentle curves of her letters had haunted him almost as much as her pained expression and her broken "I love you."

He read the note, once, twice. It was nothing of interest; a letter to Lord Drenson, a former lover from the tone of her note. But it was signed, in that same delicate hand that he remembered so well, with _"Your little Lizzy."_

_Lizzy. Elizabeth. _

His head was pounding from the fantastical realization. He did not even hear her enter.

"Mr. Darcy, I apologize for keeping you waiting."

He did not turn at the sound of her voice, afraid to face her, terrified of looking into those familiar green eyes.

"I knew a girl once, and I am afraid I hurt her." She did not respond, nor did she make any more steps towards him from what he could hear. "Her name was Elizabeth Bennet."

With bated breath, he waited for the moment of truth. _Can it be?_

"She knew a man once, who most certainly _did _hurt her," she at last responded in an ice cold tone. "But it matters not, for she is no more."

He turned towards her and plunged into the depth of her fine, lovely, hurting, burning, furious eyes.

He read in those eyes her story. Within a moment, the past years flashed before his eyes. Lord Drenson's departure for the continent had been of some notoriety. It was a well-known fact that he had connections with the finest courtesans on the continent. The coincidence of his departure with Elizabeth Bennet's disappearance – her presumed death – had escaped Darcy's notice, and likely everyone else's, at the time. And now she was back, so different and yet the same. The same green eyes, the same courageous and heedless temper, the same strong will.

"You had other options," he murmured, trying to convince himself more than her.

"Did I?"

"Well, surely, a less drastic course of action would have sufficed. To run away to the continent to pursue training as a courtesan… why, what a fantastical notion!"

"Indeed, a fantastical notion of a silly naïve little girl."

He heard the bitterness in her tone and lowered his head. "Forgive me."

"What would you have had me do, Mr. Darcy? My father's suggestion was to leave my fate to the one man who had hurt me. To implore him to do the honorable thing to save me, to cover up the scandal with a forced marriage. I could never consent to that. No, anything was better than to leave my fate in _that _man's hands. Yet to remain alive and well and unmarried would have allowed my sisters to partake in my ruin. And so I chose the only path available to me outside of hurting my family and being tied to a cold-hearted man. I do not regret it. Anything but to be _your _wife, Mr. Darcy."

There was so much venom in her voice that it hurt. But he could scarcely fault her. He wondered inwardly what his response would have been had the Bennets approached him with such a request. Would he have married her? _Most probably not._

After a long silence, Elizabeth stood and went to look at the time.

"It is almost four o'clock, Mr. Darcy. I am expecting a caller in an hour, and I need to prepare. If you will excuse me." She left the drawing room with a short command to the butler to see him out.

As his carriage rode away from her fashionable home, he wondered who her caller would be that afternoon. Was it the Earl of Palsy or Baron Duffenger? Or perhaps Lord Sarry? He envied whoever it was. He envied them all.

Over the following fortnight, he sent her flowers in the mornings and little trinkets in the evenings, but he did not call on her again. During the day, he thought and analyzed and deliberated. At night, his nightmares had worsened.

His life had been full of tragedy. The mysterious fire that had taken his parents. Georgiana's elopement and death. These events had tormented him, gnawed at him, hardened him. But nothing tore at him as much as seeing the damage he had done to this woman. Those other tragedies had other culprits – the unknown arsonist, Wickham. The tragedy of Lizzy Bennet was entirely and irrevocably his own fault.

It frightened him, sometimes, to see how much damage he had done. The transformation from the sweet and innocent Lizzy into the cold and hard Isabella was remarkable. He lusted after Isabella Caraggio, hopelessly, desperately. But knowing that deep inside was Lizzy Bennet, the same lovely girl whom he had broken, made him yearn for her in a more deep and soulful way. He wanted to fix her. He wanted to make it all up to her. He wanted to atone. He wanted to be permitted to love her.

_He loved her._

The realization struck unexpectedly on his early morning ride through Hyde Park, and heedlessly, he rushed to Mayfair.

Ignoring the butler's protests and every demand of propriety, he ran straight into the house when he arrived. Excited, nervous, he was bursting with his newfound knowledge and could not wait to share it with her, to throw himself at her feet and to seek absolution.

He found her right in the sitting room, reclining semi-nude on the settee, her hand languidly stroking the long blond curls of the man kneeling between her legs, his head buried in her precious core.

Embarrassed, Darcy halted mid-stem. Unperturbed, Elizabeth raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Mr. Darcy," she greeted coolly. He saw her lucky lover's head still its ministrations upon the interruption. Her hold on the hair tightened, and she pressed the head back to her core, signaling that it need not cease in its task. The head eagerly resumed the up and down motions. Despite himself, Darcy found the sight of another man pleasuring her to be oddly arousing.

Having assured the continuation of her pleasure, Elizabeth then turned back to her unwelcome visitor.

"Has no one ever taught you to wait to be announced before entering a lady's sitting room, Mr. Darcy?"

"I – I b-beg your pardon, Signorina." He managed to grind out, his breath audibly ragged from the building excitement. She was using her free hand to caress her exposed breasts, her head reclining in pleasure.

"Tsk, what a bad boy. For a grown man of eight-and-twenty, Mr. Darcy, you behave rather too much like an undisciplined youth. I wager you were not punished nearly enough as a child."

"I – I s-suppose n-not, S-signorina." _Blast it!_ She was pinching the dark pink rosebud on her left breast and licking her lips. How was he supposed to retain any dignity in the face of such a sumptuous sight?

"Perhaps it is nothing that a good thrashing would not be able to fix," She mused. "How would you like that, Mr. Darcy? I would command you to drop your breeches and bend over with your bare buttocks on display, then whip those naughty buttocks red, and then allow you to thank me for disciplining you by licking the soles of my feet." She illustrated her titillating description with an elegantly raised right foot, drawing languid circles in the air with those perfect little toes that he so admired and longed to kiss.

He was attempting to gather enough control to respond, when her grip on the other man's hair tightened, she pressed that other face deeper to herself, and threw back her head in an erotic display of ecstasy. Her body convulsed briefly, her chest rose sumptuously, her perfect lips let out a perfect moan, and he was gone. He soiled himself inside his breeches while watching her explode with pleasure from another man's tongue, and he could not even feel mortification. He was in heaven.

She took several moments to compose herself. Once composed, however, she was back to her regal coolness.

"Thank you, Johnny. Please return to your regular duties." As the man rose from between her legs, Darcy was surprised to note his attire. He had expected it to be a gentleman, one of Isabella's wealthy clients. Instead, the man he so envied was nothing more than her footman.

With a wide satisfied grin, Johnny bowed and obediently left the room.

"You seem surprised, Mr. Darcy. You needn't be. I have excellent boys on my staff, all handpicked for their gorgeous figures and perfect obedience. They are often much better trained at giving me pleasure than the more refined paying visitors of my bed."

He nodded, but did not respond. Then, recalling why he had come, he blurted out: "I love you."

She swept a curious gaze over him, from his flushed face down to where a humiliating wet patch was beginning to seap through his breeches. She ignored what he had said.

"Now, shall we speak about your behavior, Mr. Darcy? Or, more aptly, your _mis_behavior." He was silent. She raised her eyebrows, then condescended to continue: "Tell me, did you _like _the punishment I described? Would you _enjoy_ being made to offer your bare behind for my whipping, and then to thank me on your knees, with your lips against my feet and your punished rear raised up in the air?"

He gulped. "I do not know, Signorina."

"Don't you?"

"I have never been in that position before. I am not sure how it would feel. But I do… that is, I would… what I mean to say is that it does sound… oddly appealing. I know not why."

"Oh, _I_ know why. It is because you are a very naughty boy, Mr. Darcy. And naughty boys like to be punished for their misbehavior."

She stood up, not bothering to close the loose robe she was wearing. He swallowed hard at the sight of those precious little curls of hair covering her sex. She came all the way up to him, and murmured sensually, her hot breath caressing his ear:

"I will go and get dressed now. I will be back in a half hour. I want _you_, Mister, to remove all clothing below your waist, and to stand right in that corner, with your nose facing the wall. During my absence, you are to recall exactly what misbehaviors you have committed today, and how many licks of the riding crop you think you deserve for each one. I expect a thorough account when I return."

Without awaiting his response, she quit the room.

He was unable to disobey her. As he unfastened his breeches, he realized that she had left the sitting room door ajar. He caught the knowing eye of the butler stood in the corridor, and blushed but continued removing his clothing. It was humiliating, to be sure, to be put on display in front of her servants, but was it truly much worse than the situation in which he already found himself? He had rushed to her notorious house in broad daylight, after having paid court to her for almost four months. He had spilled his seed fully dressed while watching her receive her pleasure from a footman. _Johnny _already knew the full extend of his humiliation. What did it matter if the butler learned the same?

Folding his soiled breeches and drawers neatly on the table, he went to stand as instructed with his nose pressed against the corner. The coolness of the air around his exposed privates felt soothing, especially in their current sticky condition.

True to her word, she took a half hour to return. Ample time in which he mentally catalogued his misdemeanors and became progressively more excited to experience the punishment session she had promised. He surely deserved anything she was willing to dole out, and he looked forward to the feeling of belonging he would attain from receiving her correction. For once, during his discipline, he would have her _full attention_. The thought was exhilarating.

"Good boy," she remarked when she entered the room. "It is reassuring to see that you can at least follow simple commands. Come kneel before me and tell me why you need to be punished."

She was sat on the same settee where she had so recently achieved her release. He knelt humbly before her.

"I have been a very bad boy, Signorina, and I need to be punished." He began uncertainly, but grew increasingly confident, spurred on by the erotic audacity of his own words. "My first offense this morning was to enter unannounced, against the council of your excellent butler. I believe I require at least ten licks of the crop for that. Then I failed to excuse myself upon finding you in a delicate position at my arrival. That should be another ten licks, Signorina. Lastly, I was a terribly naughty boy and I soiled my pants. I believe I deserve at least twenty licks of the riding crop on my punished backside for gaining my release without your permission, madam."

She regarded him from under furrowed brows, her brilliant green eyes probing, searching, evaluating. She remained silent, deep in thought, until her apparent reverie was interrupted by the butler.

"As you had requested, madam, I have come to inform you that it is nearly noon. I believe Lord Sarry is to arrive in a quarter hour."

"Thank you, Jenson," she answered, and stood up. Uncertain, Darcy followed her with his eyes.

"Signorina?"

"I am afraid I do not have enough time to administer your punishment, Mr. Darcy. Nor, to be frank, do I have the inclination. You are much too far gone to be corrected with pleasurable discipline, and regardless, I typically do not bestow such treatment without adequate compensation."

Eagerly, he offered: "I would be delighted to provide any compensation you might require, madam! I may be a very bad boy, but I am sure that repeated and consistent chastisement would be of great help to me. Perhaps I could come thrice weekly?"

She let out a harsh laugh. "I have no doubt that you could _come _much more often than that, judging from your performance this morning. But I do not intend to take any new clients at the moment."

Terrified, he crawled closer to where she now stood, so regal and magnificent. "Please, Elizabeth! I will pay double, triple your usual price!"

Her narrowed eyes regarded him with scorn. "I have no wish for _your _business, Mr. Darcy, at any price. And if you wish to retain any admission to social visits at my home, I would suggest that you refrain from addressing me by names that are not my own. I am Signorina Isabella Caraggio. Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare to receive my visitor. Feel free to show yourself out whenever you wish; and I would suggest that you put your dirty drawers back on quickly, unless you intend for his Lordship to become acquainted with those private parts of yours."

Hurt, confused, humiliated, he watched her quickly exit the room. He collected himself enough to put his drawers and breeches back on, wincing at the discomfort of his now dried seed on his clothes. Then he hurriedly left her house before anyone had the chance to witness the full extent of his pain.

_She had rejected him_.

It hurt. Other men were allowed to submit to her discipline and give her pleasure. Yet she would not permit _him _the same service, no matter the price he was willing to pay. He wanted to say that it was unfair. Yet, in good conscience, he could not. For those other men had never hurt or rejected _her_. And he had.

* * *

**So, her secret is out aaaaaand he cracks. But does Lizzy still want her revenge? I envision eight chapters in total for this story, by the way, so we are roughly halfway.**


	5. Her Resistance

**Well, here comes the next installment. It does get even bleaker than the last, sorry, but that is how I envisioned this story. **

**I am very pleased that the story is generating so much lively debate! Although I was somewhat confused by the adamancy with which an anonymous reviewer(s?) denigrated Elizabeth's position. I tried quite hard to depict that Elizabeth has a lot of _choice _in this story; she can - and does (see Darcy) - deny any client she does not desire. Perhaps it would have been more prudent on my part to make her marry Lord Drenson and kill him off: would a widow having willing intercourse have been more acceptable? Relatedly, I find the double standard to be quite interesting. I don't recall the stories where Darcy deals with his grief (e.g. over his father's death) by being promiscuous receiving nearly as much backlash. And, of course, there's the perpetual aversion to submissive males, when apparently the reverse can make bestseller lists. Ladies, why do you prefer the virgin-submissive-female/experienced-dominant-male paradigm to the reverse? I would actually be very curious to hear people's thoughts on what factors might be causing this - psychological, sociological, physiological, or anything else.**

* * *

_"And then the remorse, the poignant sweetness of sobbing atonement, __groveling love, the hopelessness of sensual reconciliation. In the velvet __night, at Mirana Motel (Mirana!) I kissed the yellowish soles of her __long-toed feet, I immolated myself . . . But it was all of no avail. Both __doomed were we."_

_\- _Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita_

Day after day after day, Fitzwilliam Darcy waited on Isabella Caraggio during the polite calling hour and attended her evening soirees. He brought her jewels and sent her flowers. She received him with a polite yet distant smile. She was refined, gentle, and considerate. He yearned for her to be angry, strict, and passionate. She did not betray, with a single word or look, that she had even the slightest recollection of his submission on that fateful morning.

Other men came and went, other men sat at her feet and were allowed the occasional kiss on her bare calves and toes, other men stayed behind when she dismissed her guests at the end of her soirees. To them, she spoke imperiously. Them, she ordered and teased. Them, she touched sensuously. To him, she spoke with utmost decorum. Him, she treated with polite respect. From him, she kept her distance.

He hated it. He wanted to be her lover, her servant, her slave. He wanted to be hers, and he wanted to be known as such. He was so frustrated at times that he wanted to shout to the room, right in the middle of one of the playful little soirees she held for her gentleman admirers, that he too had seen her undressed, that he too had reached a climax in her presence, that he too had knelt at her feet and begged to be thrashed.

He almost wished that when she left him that morning, he had stayed. Kneeling and naked below the waist. If only he had stayed and allowed Lord Sarry to see his humiliating position, then all those damned other men would know that he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, had also once had the privilege of submitting to their Goddess.

But he had not. A coward and a stickler for propriety, he had once again allowed his sense of decorum to rule him in the presence of that one deliciously enigmatic woman. But no more. No, he was fully determined to become Elizabeth's, and to have the world know that she was the mistress of his heart, and – hopefully! – his bed.

At one of Elizabeth's more risque soirees, the lovely courtesan announced a new parlor game.

"You are all such interesting gentlemen, that I would love to hear more about your exploits," she remarked casually. "You shall each take a turn, and recount the most scandalous tryst you have ever had. Whoever tells the most shocking tale shall be rewarded with a half hour of uninhibited access to a part of my body – of his choice! – to kiss and lick and worship in any way he desires. For free, and quite immediately." She winked at the end.

The gentlemen, most of them quite far from sober by this point of the evening, loudly cheered.

Lord Sarry went first. "When I was but a boy of fifteen, I had a delightful governess, Miss Amanda. She was so wonderfully voluptuous and so splendidly strict, that I felt myself most ardently in lust with her. I tried to make a pass at her, stroking her luscious breast when she bent over to read my Latin lines. My, was she displeased! She had me drop my breeches and bend right over the parchment with Latin, and then took a ruler to my bare buttocks. When she was finished chastising her naughty pupil, I was most visibly excited, as was she, and we copulated on the table. It would have been a most splendid governess-pupil relationship after that, had my father not chosen that moment to enter the study room. Poor Miss Amanda was dismissed without a reference, and I was given a vile old bore for an instructor."

Elizabeth laughed brightly. "Oh my, your Lordship! What a naughty little boy you were. Though it comes at no surprise, given what a naughty big boy you are now. Pity that Miss Amanda could not have stayed longer to give you more of the much needed thrashings."

Lord Sarry grinned back at her. "A pity indeed. But a good thing that, many years later, I found an even more dazzling disciplinarian."

The other gentlemen all offered similarly titillating stories, and Elizabeth seemed to be well pleased with them. When Darcy's turn approached, he felt himself grow anxious. What could he tell her to match the sordid tales of the other men? He lacked not only scandalous tales of copulation, but _any _tales of copulation. He was, or rather had been, so very far removed from this type of thing… until her.

"And you, Mr. Darcy? What was the most shocking little tryst that you have ever had with a buxom wench? Did you fornicate in the gardens of Pemberley with a village girl, or right in Darcy Manor with a timid maid?" At her questions, he felt the room's attention shift to his person, all waiting to hear his sins. He thought the room grew quieter than before. It was no great shock to hear such stories from Lord Sarry or Baron Duffenger. It was another thing altogether for the taciturn, upright Darcy to share his secrets.

"Neither, madam."

"Of course, such trite things are far too simple for the Master of Pemberley. Well then, do tell us your sordid tale!"

He looked her straight in the eyes, took a deep breath, and declared: "I am an innocent, madam."

At the collective gasp that erupted through the room at his revelation, Elizabeth furrowed her brows. "From the reaction of my friends, it seems that this is the most shocking of the sordid tales thus far. Would anyone remaining like to attempt to surpass Mr. Darcy's juicy declaration?"

In the ensuing silence, Darcy thought the entire room must be able to hear his quickened heartbeat. He was the lucky winner, he was about to receive his reward!

Reluctantly, Elizabeth rose and came to stand before him. Her face had a cold, regal, displeased expression. _This _was what he had so yearned and waited for. He slid to his knees and lowered his head.

"Signorina. I am honored to have pleased you," he humbly murmured.

She did not look at all pleased. "Felicitations, Mr. Darcy. You have won the wager, and may now choose your reward. Which part of me would you like to admire?"

He raised his head and once again looked her straight in the eyes, with almost a challenge. "Your beautiful feet, madam." He was not surprised to see the flash of anger in her brilliant eyes. This was not going according to her plans. He was getting through the carefully constructed wall of her defenses. _Good_.

She took a moment to compose herself, to chase the ire out of her expressive eyes.

"Very well." She walked to the nearest settee, and seated herself next to Baron Duffenger. Carefully sliding her feet out of her satin slippers, she extended them forward. "Gentlemen, could one of you please time a half hour?"

Still maintaining a challenging gaze with his Goddess, Darcy very purposefully made his way towards her lovely toes, without rising from his kneeling position. Finally, on his knees before her, he humbly enquired before touching his promised reward: "May I?"

In lieu of an answer, she gave him another blazingly irritated look, and thrust a foot at him. "Proceed as you wish, sir. You are the winner."

_So she refuses to give in_.

He did not take her foot in his hands. Instead, he lowered his head until his aristocratic nose touched the perfect arch of her upraised right foot, and gently nudged it sideways, until his lips came into contact with the sole. He pressed his cheek against the bottom of her foot, humbling himself, forcing her to accept his submission.

She conceded her defeat, or came as close to it as she could allow herself, by turning away from him and engaging the other men in frivolous conversation. She had the remaining gentlemen provide their own sordid tales, purely for her entertainment. She had a Spanish Prince serenade her. She had two Lords wrestle on the floor for the honor of being her client that evening.

Darcy concentrated all of his attention on his own ministrations. It hurt to hear her flirt with the others. It was painful to hear Lord Sarry pronounced the winner of the wrestling match and know that within some short few hours, his Lordship would be allowed to present Elizabeth with an extravagant gift – his payment – in the privacy of her bedchamber. But her feet were as soft and lovely as he had imagined, and he forced himself to concentrate on the pleasure.

His hands were firmly placed behind his back, and he resolved to use only his face in his half-hour attentions. He caressed his cheek against her right foot, placed tender yet ardent kisses all over, suckled on the delicate toes, and poked his nose between them. When he felt that that foot had received sufficient attention for the time being, he redirected his efforts to the left foot, which was as yet placed on the floor. When he bent his head down and took a delicious toe into his mouth, his chin rubbing against the harsh carpet, he heard her sharp intake of air. _Ah-ha! You were not expecting this, were you, my Goddess?_

In the greatest conceding of defeat she had displayed thus far, she shifted her position to have her left foot raised in the air for his ministrations. _She does not want my face against the ground at her feet? Very well!_

He covered the length of the sole of her left foot with adoring kisses, then placed his head, face down, right underneath that lovely foot. He thought he felt her toes tense on top of his curls. He knew that she did not like this. The one man whom she was staunchly refusing the right to be her lover or servant was on his knees with his head serving as her footstool. The grand Isabella Caraggio – _his Elizabeth _– was used to being in command of every situation, and she must be incensed at his behavior.

_Good. Perhaps she will be incensed enough to go through with punishing me this time._

"My god, Darcy, what _are _you doing?" It seemed that Baron Duffenger had noticed his new position. "That is no way to enjoy a half hour of free reign with a lady's body part, even if you did choose her feet!"

He heard Elizabeth's harsh chuckle. He thought it sounded quite put on. "I suppose it is not so very shocking after all that Mr. Darcy is a twenty-eight-year-old virgin! It seems that the poor fellow has not the slightest idea of what to do with a lady's body part in his possession."

The room broke out in laughter at her joke at his expense. Darcy remained stiff and silent, determinedly maintaining his position. He knew that he would ache later if he were to remain so for much longer, but he relished the pain almost as much as the humiliation. Here he was, Master of Pemberley and one of the most sought after bachelors for years: in a courtesan's sitting room, on his knees with his head under her foot as a reward for confessing his virginity, under the laughing jokes and stares of the courtesan and her lovers.

She wanted him gone, and she had a right to. Their history was difficult – no, impossible – to forget. It was because of _him _that she was a Cyprian, and she had every right to despise him. But he, too, had every right to try and make amends. If he wanted to serve her, he would. If he wanted to be hers, he would be. She could deny him her favors, but not his submission.

Unfortunately, granting his submission to a woman who did not appear to desire it proved more difficult than Darcy had hoped. That evening, his half an hour ended all too quickly, and taking Lord Sarry with her, she dismissed her other guests. On other evenings, he was all that was obedient and solicitous in her presence. He bowed and presented her with extravagant gifts. He addressed her as Signorina or madam or, lately, _my Goddess_. But the few times he dropped to his knees as a form of greeting, she simply walked away and engaged in conversation with others, ignoring him for the entire length of the evening.

She continued to accept him at her soirees, perhaps because she considered banning him from her house to be another form of admitting defeat. He was grateful for this, but his hopes of repeating the delicious experience at her feet were foiled at every turn. She was careful to keep her parlour games such that he would not emerge the victor. She never allowed him time alone with her, and she largely ignored him.

His social standing suffered tremendously. Not because of his attendance at Isabella Caraggio's infamous soirees – no, that was actually quite a fashionable way for a gentleman to pass his evenings. Not even because of his displays of submissiveness in front of her – in that, he was in excellent company: any taste that Lord Sarry and the Duke of Montegue had in common was considered to be most refined. No, the jokes and jibes he had to suffer came from the fact that, unlike those other worthy men, _his _submission was not welcomed by the lovely courtesan.

"It's alright, Darcy, not every man has buttocks that a woman would want to thrash!" Sir Paul Clancey, the newest devotee of Isabella's strict discipline, clapped him merrily on the shoulder at their club.

"Perhaps, Paul, good old Darcy simply does not _need _a thrashing like we do," Lord Sarry laughingly offered. "Have you not heard? He is a pure innocent. If you want to be punished, Darcy, go be a bad boy! Seduce and abandon some gentlewoman, then come to Isabella for correction."

They all laughed. Darcy, beyond the usual mortification that came with being made a laughingstock by the other men, felt a chill run down his back. _That came too close to the truth._

Unfortunately, Sir Clancey appeared to have the same thought:

"Say, Darcy, wasn't there a rumor of precisely that a few years back? There was that girl that you refused to marry and ruined. Whatever happened to her?"

"Excuse me," Darcy responded curtly, and walked out. The fresh air, he hoped, would help quell the feeling of nausea that suddenly overtook him.

_What happened to that poor gentle girl is that she became the most alluring courtesan, hard and cold and no longer innocent. And I wish with all my being that _she _would allow me to atone in any and every way she desires._

He was beyond caring for anything other than that poor girl and magnificent courtesan. His desperation found a fantastical release when he chanced to glimpse a posting in the house staff section of the paper:

_"Signorina C is looking for a new footman. Young men below the age of thirty, well built, and with an impeccable record of service, may inquire for an interview between 1 and 3 o'clock in the afternoon, at …"_

And then, her address at Mayfair.

He was overtaken by the most vivid recollections.

_Johnny's light curls between her legs._

_Johnny, grinning after her ecstasy._

_That other man – Tommy? – receiving a resounding smack on his bottom and a delicious press of her hand on the front of his pants as he served at her dinner table._

It was unfathomable, it was fantastical, it was ridiculous. It was desperate. But he felt that it was his only chance.

At 1 o'clock sharp the next day, he presented his card to her butler. He was informed that Signorina was not taking gentleman callers at that time.

"I am not here for a social visit. I would like to speak with Signorina Caraggio about the opening that she has on her staff."

The butler regarded him skeptically, opened his mouth as if to enquire for clarification, but then bowed and went to announce him. Within a few minutes, Darcy was admitted into her study.

"Mr. Darcy," she greeted. "Have you come to propose a new footman for my employ? How kind of you. Though you should have brought him with you; I do not accept male employees on reference alone, without having seen them first."

"He – he is here," Darcy ground out, all the while wondering if this endeavor was too much and if he should flee before he had a chance to really get himself deep into this absolutely mad situation.

"Well then," she flicked her head imperiously. "Have him come in!"

"He – that is, I – it is I, madam."

"Y-you?" She seemed genuinely confused.

"I would like to apply for the position of your new footman, Signorina." He bowed his head humbly.

As understanding dawned on her, so did anger. "What nonsense is this?"

"Your listing asked for a man under thirty, and I am yet eight and twenty. I also believe that I am considered, er, well built. I believe I fit your characteristics and would like to be granted an interview." If an impartial observer were to witness their exchange, they would be amused at the juxtaposition of Mr. Darcy's degrading request with the arrogant hauteur of his tone.

Elizabeth frowned. "I believe I also asked for impeccable record of prior service, Mr. Darcy."

"I have no previous blemishes on my service record, madam."

"Very well," she responded briefly, choosing not to argue with him over the fine point of the lack of very existence of such a record. "Strip."

He was taken aback. "Pardon me?"

"I ordered you to disrobe. Immediately. If you cannot show me instant obedience, sir, then I suggest that you leave at once, as you are clearly not fit for the role."

Excitedly, he hurried to undress.

When he stood stark naked before her, she appraised him with an impartial gaze. She did not betray even a flicker of either pleasure or disgust, and he anxiously enquired:

"Do I please you, my Goddess?"

She slapped him sharply across the face. "If you enter my employ, boy, you will address me as Mistress."

He dropped his gaze in a gesture of submission. "Yes, Mistress. Forgive me, Mistress." Then, anxiously, he pressed on: "How do I compare to your other boys, Mistress?"

She passed an elegant finger over his quickly growing length. "You are adequate, I suppose. Though not impressive enough to tempt me."

The words sounded oddly familiar, but for the life of him, he could not place them. From the glimmer of rage in her fine eyes, however, he guessed that they referred to some prior misdeed of his, and he took her stinging pronouncement in stride.

"I only hope to be adequate to serve you, Mistress."

She nodded, appeased. Then she went back to sit behind her mahogany desk, leaving him naked and on display in the middle of the room.

"Tell me honestly, Mr. Darcy, how did you get such a fantastical notion into that inscrutable head of yours? What madness pushed you to apply for the position of my footman?"

He took a deep breath. "I wish to serve you, Mistress. I wish to experience, again and again, the pleasure of licking your lovely feet, and – perhaps, hopefully – other parts of your perfect body. I want to belong to you, and to be disciplined by you. I want, in truth, to atone for my former arrogance, conceit, and complete disdain for the feelings of others – which had once led, so tragically, to a lovely sweet girl taking a path to destruction. I want you to whip and punish and humble me as much as your heart desires, so that, one day, perhaps your heart will thaw. I love you, Elizabeth, and want to be permitted to show my love in any way I can. You will not have me as a gentleman… then have me as a servant, I implore you."

He was on his knees now, and he could see from the curiosity and fear and uncertainty playing through her beautiful eyes that she was not unmoved. Indeed, she _had _to be moved. His actions were too drastic for it to be otherwise. Fitzwilliam Darcy, nude and kneeling and begging to be an ordinary servant, was a sight that could move even Elizabeth Bennet's broken and hardened heart.

"I do not think you understand what you are asking for, sir. A life of a servant is not an easy one, and I do not wish for you treat it as some perverted role play."

"I have no wish to treat this lightly either, madam."

"A footman's earnings are very small indeed. I expect, if you take this position, for you to live on such. I do not wish to see you make use of your vast and expansive fortune to continue in a wealthy gentleman's life, coming here to serve me only to appease your own fantasy."

"For the duration of my service, Mistress, I vow not to touch any part of my existing fortune, and to live solely on my wages."

"And how long would this duration be, Mr. Darcy?"

"For as long as you will have me."

She laughed. "Do not take me for a fool, sir! As soon as you tire of your fantasy, or grow disillusioned with it, you will leave and return to your comfortable lifestyle in a blink of an eye. That is all good and fine, except that it will mean one thing: you will never be _truly _my servant. You will obey as far, and only as far, as it pleases you. As soon as I deviate even a fraction from your fantasy, you will quit. It sounds to me, Mr. Darcy, like you are seeking to have me satisfy your sexual desires without paying me a farthing."

He was enraged enough to stand from his kneeling position and advance menacingly towards her. Even in his vulnerably nude state, even with his recent displays of submission, his size and purposeful strides were enough to frighten her.

"Do _not _speak thus of my devotion, madam. I may have wronged you tremendously, but I am as repentant as any man ever was. I mean all that I say. You _know _I have no desire to receive any sexual services from you without paying; I am more than willing to pay any amount, only _you _will not accept me as a client. So accept me as a servant then. Truly. Earnestly. We will sign an employment contract for a year."

He backed away from her and picked up his clothes. "I will be back with my solicitor tomorrow morning."

Without giving her a chance to respond, he quit her study, quickly dressed in the hallway, and took his carriage back to Darcy House. Starting tomorrow, he would be completely and irrevocably at her mercy for an entire year to come. And he would be damned if that year would not be enough to show her how genuinely he wished to be hers.

* * *

**What can I say, desperate times call for desperate measures. ;) Keep in mind that this is all from Darcy's perspective, who until now has been quite proper and then fell precipitously over the edge of guilt and desire. We will see some of what others think in the next chapter.**


	6. Her Footman

_"Why should you be angry with me? Because I call myself your slave? Revel, I pray you, in my slavery-revel in it."_

\- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, _The Gambler_

"Boys and girls, please welcome the newest addition to our household, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Fitzy, please meet the other footmen: the first footman Johnny, the second footman Claude, and my third boy Tommy. You will be the fourth and lowest ranked footman. As such, you must defer to those ranked above you." He followed her introduction with his gaze. Johnny was the young man with blond curls whom he had seen pleasuring Elizabeth on that fateful day. Tommy was a tall ginger-haired man with a charming smile. Claude was a shorter but well-built Frenchman with dark curls and clear blue eyes. He sensed a wave of competitive dislike from both Johnny and Claude; even Tommy's sweet smile turned odd as he made eye contact with Darcy. _I suppose they do not like the addition of another male competing for their Mistress's favors._

"Fitzy, you will report to Mr. Jenson, my butler." The older man regarded him with a cool, disapproving expression. "This is Mrs. Sandry, the housekeeper. Mrs. Lowell is our cook, and Christie is the kitchen maid. And these are my upstairs maids, Anna and Mary." The two girls were both young and pretty, and smiled coyly at him, but Darcy did not deign either with a smile or more than a split second of a glance. _I am Elizabeth's; surely, that much is obvious from my mere presence here in such circumstances._

"Jenson and Tommy will see to your training over the next week. There are a variety of duties that my footmen need to know how to perform. First, the usual things such as serving meals, accompanying me and my guests in the carriage, shining shoes and mending pens." Darcy nodded his comprehension.

"I also do not have valets, so footmen are responsible for assisting my male guests with removing and replacing their clothing, when needed." Darcy blushed. _So I will have to play the humiliating role of helping Elizabeth's lovers dress and undress_?

"Then there are the more intimate duties. I like my breakfast served up in my room by a handsome nude boy. I prefer an element of surprise in this, so the performer of this duty is chosen at random each morning by drawing straws. Also, although the maids typically handle my laundry, I like my intimate items of apparel carefully hand-washed by manly hands." Darcy felt his heart race faster as he imagined holding, touching, smelling, _tasting_ Elizabeth's undergarments. "The right to handle my undergarments in this manner is considered a privilege in this house, so this duty goes to the footman who, according to Jenson, has been performing the best over the prior week."

Elizabeth paused before finishing. "Lastly, I occasionally like my footmen to provide me with intimate favors. I take it that you are not averse to serving me in this way?"

"N-no, of course not, Mistress. It would be my honor."

"Good. And you belong to me, so do not dare touch your manhood without my permission. Now, why don't you go and unpack. Tommy, please show our newest member to his room."

Tommy complied, leaving Darcy alone in a small, dark, bare room. It was nothing compared to his previous situation, but he found himself oddly excited to dive into this new role. He had been ecstatic when Elizabeth had agreed to their year-long contract, placing her signature on the sheet of paper handed to her by his perplexed and disapproving solicitor. To his delight, her acquiescence had come much easier than he had feared. She had also been unexpectedly generous, allowing him an afternoon off each week to change into his gentlemanly attire and attend to the Darcy affairs. She explained that she did not wish to be singlehandedly responsible for the downfall of Pemberley and the Darcy fortune. He loved her all the more for it.

His first week of service was both uneventful and frustrating. He was taught to serve meals, scrub shoes, mend various household items. But until his training was deemed complete, Darcy did not have the pleasure of being in Elizabeth's company.

The first time he served at her table, she was in company only with another striking young lady, whom he did not recall seeing before, although she may have been one of the ladies occasionally present at Elizabeth's soirees – he would not have noticed, having eyes only for his Goddess.

As he passed by the lady with the tray, he felt her hand lightly smack his behind. His eyes grew wide with dismay and indignation, but he did not have a chance to voice his protest before the woman addressed Elizabeth in a lilting French accent.

"Mmm, Isabella, this one is _fine_. So tall and handsome, and with such a taut behind. I have not seen him here before, is he new?"

"Yes, he is, Nana."

"A lovely specimen! You have always chosen the finest footmen. May I play with him some time?"

Darcy spoke before his Mistress had a chance to respond. "No!" He was not sure what the other woman meant by _playing_, but he had a pretty good idea that it would not be anything he would wish to allow. _I am Elizabeth's and hers alone. She may do what she will with me, but I will draw the line at lending me out to other women._

Elizabeth glared at him. "What do you mean, Fitzy, by speaking thus to my guest when you have not been addressed?"

He bowed his head in submission, but did not regret his hastily uttered negation. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Mistress. But I refuse to be used by any woman other than you."

"Undress immediately, Fitzwilliam, and bring me the riding crop. Such attitude will _not _be tolerated."

Nana's eyes grew wide and excited. "_Fitzwilliam_? Isabella, is it _him_?"

His Mistress's answer was quiet and almost shy. "Yes."

"But he… _oh my_… I was right!"

And then the woman burst into a round of raucous laughter. Darcy was confused and intrigued by their conversation, but at this point he had finished undressing and left the room to retrieve the riding crop from the back stables. Suppressing the wave of humiliation at parading naked through her house – _why do I still continue to feel humiliated, after everything I have been through? _– he hurried to return, unwilling to miss any precious morsels of the women's mysterious exchange.

When he returned, he noticed that the other woman, Nana, had stopped laughing and was studying his Mistress with a quizzical gaze. Elizabeth's head was determinedly turned away from her friend.

He purposefully strode to the other side of the table and bent over it. "Mistress, please punish your disobedient servant for disrespecting your friend."

He heard a gasp and then another peal of Nana's laughter. "Oh, Isabella, I see it now! Bent over like that, he looks just like that man I was spanking on the day you burst in! No wonder you tore him raw with the crop."

"Well, I enjoyed whipping your _Chevalier_, and am happy to repay the favor. Give this boy ten licks of the crop. Darcy, since you were disrespectful to my friend, you will be punished by her."

Darcy wanted to protest, but decided against it. This was a small enough price to pay. He instinctively knew what his Mistress did not say with this compromise: that other than whipping his buttocks, her friend would not touch him in any other way.

He counted dutifully Nana's punishing strokes, apologized and thanked her for the chastisement. It seemed that the girl could not stop laughing.

"Oh, _ma cherie_, this is priceless! I am so very proud of myself for being right! 'Arrogant, proper, high and mighty' – is that not what you said? And remember what I predicted? That he would fall straight at your feet! And look at him now – your _footman_! Whipped for refusing to be with another woman!"

While the words were still mysterious, Darcy began to put bits and pieces together. _Had Elizabeth told this woman about me, about us? _

When he was on his knees thanking Nana for having administered the punishment and promising to show her respect in the future, Darcy could not help asking: "Madam, it sounds as if you have heard about me before. I feel I am at a disadvantage – if you could be so kind, could you please enlighten me on what you know about me?"

He saw the flash of anger in Elizabeth's eyes, but Nana answered him against her friend's protests: "I know everything, Mr. Darcy. I know all about what a horrible, bad, naughty boy you have been in the past, and how very much my dear friend has always wanted to whip you. I am glad that I was correct about you – with the right provocation you are just as any other overly proper man: ready to burst."

_Well, this is interesting. Elizabeth has always wanted to spank me? Then why does she seem so reluctant now?_

Nana seemed to note his troubled expression. "What is the matter, pet? Are you embarrassed of your degrading fall? You needn't be, I have seem many a great man fall this way."

He shook his head. "That is not the issue, madam. I am just surprised at you saying that Mistress has always wanted to thrash me. She seems quite averse to my submission."

Nana's gaze turned rueful, as she faced Elizabeth. "Oh Bella, I told you, didn't I? As soon as you get them, you discover that you no longer want it. But you did not heed my warning, did you?"

Elizabeth stood abruptly. "Enough. Darcy, go back downstairs and ask Jenson what work there is to do. I do not require you here."

He thought she would deny him her presence for at least a week after that incident, but on the second day after Nana's enlightening visit, he drew the lucky straw and was the one to serve Elizabeth her breakfast.

As he walked into her bedchamber fully nude, he was mortified to feel his manhood throb with arousal. But it had been weeks since he had given himself a release. He belonged to Elizabeth now, and would not touch himself without her permission.

He walked to her bed and deposited the tray on the table, then stood awkwardly as she studied him.

She reached out her hand, but instead of touching him where he desired her most, she played with the curls of hair surrounding his member.

"These have no place around a virgin member like yours, Fitzy."

"Mistress?"

"I want you to remove all these nasty hairs. Nice and smooth like the good little innocent that you are."

"I – I do not know how, Mistress."

"The same as you do with your your face, boy." Then she narrowed her eyes, studying the growing stubble on his chin. "Oh my, you haven't shaved since you got here, have you?"

"I do not know how, Mistress," he repeated dumbly.

She huffed, frustrated. "Well, ask one of the other boys to teach you!"

She dismissed him with that, and he anxiously wondered whom he should approach. Johnny was out of the question. The man clearly despised him. Claude's expressions were often equally dark and forbidding. Tommy seemed like the most promising choice.

"Tommy," he approached the third footman hesitantly. "I need, that is I – I have never shaved myself in the past. And Mistress has made it clear that I need to learn. Will you teach me?"

"You want me to show you how to shave your face?"

"Erm, that, and…" He blushed, unable to continue. Then steeled himself. "That and my… privates."

Tommy grinned. "Mistress wants you to be bare down there?" Mortified, Darcy nodded. "And you would like me to help remove your little hairs?"

"Y-yes." _Oh God, how I wish the ground could swallow me whole just now._

"I would be happy to assist," Tommy smiled. "For a price."

"A price?"

"Well, I help you, you help… me."

"What would I need to do?"

"Don't worry, I'll show you."

Darcy was very much worried. "I would prefer if you told me ahead of time."

Tommy gave him a lop-sided grin. "Very well, if you wish. You can help me with my own manhood. Mistress allows me a release on my own terms once a week, and I have not had one yet this week. I would quite enjoy one with that delicious derriere of yours. You are not as enticing as Mistress, but I do like a man every now and then."

Darcy gasped. _Oh God, Tommy is one of _those _men? No no no no no. This cannot be happening._

"N-no," he stuttered out. "No thank you, I – I'll find another way."

And he quickly rushed out of the room.

Once he had calmed enough, Darcy approached his only other option, Claude.

"Claude, may I ask you for a favor?"

Claude smirked at him. "You may always ask, Fitzy, but I might not be willing to grant it."

"I – I need help shaving."

Claude laughed. "You want me to perform the duty of a valet to a lower ranked footman? _Non, merci_."

Darcy was feeling desperate. "_Please_. I would be happy to take some of your other duties."

"I like my duties very well, or I wouldn't be here."

"Is there nothing I can do in return for this favor?"

Claude gave him a thoughtful gaze. "Well, I suppose I would rather enjoy having a formerly distinguished _gentleman _shining my boots. On your knees before me, while I am still wearing them, and of course addressing me humbly as 'sir'."

Numbly, Darcy nodded. So this was it. He would have his privates shaved by another man and then humbly shine a footman's boots. _What has my life come to?_

He found that all his troubles were amply rewarded, however, when he presented himself newly shaved to his Mistress.

She looked pleased, and there was a charming glow in her fine eyes. "Mmm, beautiful. Who would have thought that you would make such a lovely innocent submissive man, Fitzwilliam."

The way she pronounced his name made him warm, and his manhood rose gleefully.

She reclined against the back of her sumptuous bed, and asked playfully: "So, do good little virgin boys like you play with their hairless members?"

"Not without your permission, Mistress."

"And what about before? How often did you give yourself a release?"

"About once per week, Mistress." He felt himself blush, shy at speaking thus of his private activities.

"I want to see how you play with yourself, Darcy. I want to watch how an innocent man, who has never known the touch of a woman, brings himself to the brink."

Darcy gasped, shocked at her forward words, but instantly complied. He had wanted to touch himself so badly, and the idea of doing so in front of his Goddess was delightfully exciting.

He stroked himself slowly at first, watching the look of approval and curiosity on Elizabeth's face as she watched him. Touching himself so openly in front of the woman he loved was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced. His strokes picked up in speed, and he briefly closed his eyes, only to open them again. He could not miss a single moment of Elizabeth's gaze upon him. She slowly parted her lips, and her own lids drooped slightly. _She is enjoying watching me perform before her! _It was all he needed to gain his release. "Elizabeth!"

Such experiences were infrequent in the weeks and months to come, but he treasured each and every one of them. The time when Elizabeth stroked him to completion with her own hand. The time she told him to touch himself in the evening and then made him recount it in minute detail the next morning. And, of course, the time when she allowed him to pleasure her with his tongue. He gained his release without permission within seconds of tasting her, and had to be punished before returning to kneel between her legs.

He had still not been invited to her bedchamber at night, to be used fully for her pleasure. That thought frustrated him, as he watched week after week Johnny, Tommy, Claude go up to that heaven. _How long will she deny me?_

Some other duties were also spared him. It was almost a month into his service before he had to serve the food at one of Elizabeth's soirees. Until then, none of her gentlemen callers with whom he had a previous acquaintance had seen him in his new role. He sometimes wondered if Elizabeth had been sparing him on purpose, allowing him to acclimate himself to his position gradually. She never betrayed any care or regard for his feelings, but these little gestures of kindness – permitting him to quit her service and attend to his affairs on a weekly basis, hiding him from the public for a full month – made him wonder if somehow, underneath all those layers of coldness and bitterness, there was a softer side to her that actually cared. He also could not get out of his head what Nana had said that afternoon. _Had Elizabeth wanted her revenge, but found it unfulfilling? How can I make it up to her, then? How can I get through all those hardened layers of bitterness around her beautiful heart?_

Lord Sarry was the first to recognize him in his new uniform, passing a tray of drinks to Elizabeth's admirers.

"Darcy! I have not seen you in a full month!"

Darcy bowed respectfully "Sir."

Lord Sarry turned to Elizabeth. "Tell me, my Mistress, what is this new game you are playing with Darcy? He looks rather dashing in that costume. Can I try it too next time?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Do you mean my new footman Fitzy, your Lordship?"

"Fitzy? How charming! Itzy bitzy Fitzy. Do you like it, Fitzwilliam?"

"Mistress may address me in any way she chooses, sir."

"Seriously, Isabella, may I serve as footman at your next soiree? It looks like such excellent fun!" Lord Sarry begged, pressing his hands together in supplication.

"Fitzy is my footman at all times, pet, not just this evening. He has been in my employ for a full month now."

"Oh ho! Well, Darcy, I would have never thought that of you! A full time servant?"

Darcy nodded.

The Duke of Montegue, who had been following their conversation attentively, spoke up. "Truly, Darcy?"

"Yes, sir."

"A man who refused to pick up Isabella's fan at the Opera House is now her servant?"

"Yes, sir. I am honored to serve my Mistress."

The Duke of Montegue looked perplexed, while Lord Sarry laughed merrily. "Well, who would have thought that you are the most adventurous of us all, Darcy? Well done, my boy!"

"Thank you, sir?"

"I rather envy you. I wish I had thought of that first. Now it would be unimpressive of me to beg Mistress to join you. Darn, but you are a clever one!"

The Baron Duffenger joined in: "Yes, I am rather impressed, Darcy. Not my sort of thing, to be honest, but if this is what you want, you did well to go for it with such determination."

After that, Darcy returned to serving the assembled company in silence, and no one paid him any further attention, except a few teasing words and some smacks on his behind. The Earl of Palsy, in particular, seemed to derive great pleasure from ordering him about with calls of "ey, boy!" All in all, Darcy was surprised at the other men's reception. They took his new status as just a step beyond some of the games they all played in Isabella's parlor. Some laughed at him. Some envied him. But it was all good-natured.

His first semi-public exhibition as Elizabeth's servant having gone quite well, all things considered, she allowed another month to pass before displaying him in a fully public arena. He had been assigned to take her and her companion for the evening, Sir Paul Clancey, to the Opera house.

After handing Elizabeth out, he stood aside to allow Sir Clancey to exit. Before taking the lady inside, Paul turned towards him with a jolly slap on the shoulder.

"Have fun, Darcy, old boy! You make a damn fine footman, so tall and imposing. Perhaps a maid or a merchant girl might take notice while you stand there guarding the carriage."

Darcy grimaced, but responded with a bow and a respectful "I hope you enjoy your evening, sir."

The evening air was chilly and he wrapped his servant frock more tightly around himself. With longing, his eyes roamed over the Opera building, taking in the brilliant lights and moving shadows within.

In the past, he would be inside, in his own box, one of the best in the theater. He would greet important acquaintances and ignore lower ones. He would fight off the unwanted attention of fawning females.

Now, he stood in the cold next to the carriage, idling away the hours while his Mistress was inside with her lover. He was dressed as a common footman, barred from the glamorous entertainment, and no one spared him a look.

He remembered vividly being inside almost a year ago. It was the first time he met Isabella Caraggio, Elizabeth's reincarnation. _Does she recall it too? Does she see the irony? Does she contemplate how very far I have come from being that arrogant, haughty man?_

Back then, he had refused to bend down and pick up her fan. _Fool! _What he wouldn't give now for the honor of being next to her outside of the box, bending down to retrieve her possession, being of service to her. _My cousin Montegue was indeed the wise one that day_.

Suddenly, a voice brought him out of his melancholic reverie.

"Darcy? Is that you?"

Frantically, Darcy glanced around for a means of escape. Alas, there was no way out. His cousin was right next to him.

"Richard."

"Are you here to see _Rinaldo_? Shall we go in?"

Darcy remained silent for several seconds, waiting for realization to dawn on his cousin. When Colonel Fitzwilliam failed to comprehend his situation, he sighed and responded. "You go ahead, sir."

"Whom are you waiting for?"

_Damn, Richard, can't you see? I am stood next to a carriage in footman's clothes, for God's sake!_

_Well, perhaps I am being unfair. This situation is too fantastical to comprehend for someone who has not been informed._

"I am awaiting my Mistress, Richard."

"Oh ho, Darcy! I would have never thought! What happened to your 'chaste until marriage' ideal? You used to have the most bizarrely strict notions of honor."

"I am no longer a gentleman, Richard," Darcy replied, gesturing towards his clothes. Alas, even this, in his opinion rather obvious, indication was misconstrued by his cousin.

"My my! I was gone to the continent for a year, and look how much I have missed! Why, we must go to the club after the performance, so that you can enlighten me on all the remarkable happenings."

"I apologize, sir, but after the performance, I must return to my duties."

"Duties? What affairs would you have so late in the evening? Surely, taking your mistress is not a _duty!_" Richard gave him a good-natured slap on the back.

"Taking my Mistress safely home is indeed one of my duties, Richard. As well as serving her and her guest a light evening meal, and performing any other tasks I may be assigned tonight."

The baffled look on Richard's face would have been amusing had Darcy not felt the full weight of humiliation in having to spell out his degrading situation to his cousin. _I wish someone else could have told him._

"I do not have the pleasure of understanding. Darcy, what are you speaking of?"

Darcy sighed. "Richard, how long have you been back?"

"But a fortnight. Why?"

"Have you seen your family yet? Your brother-in-law, Montegue?"

"I have seen him but in passing. Really, what does this have to do with anything?"

"Only that I wish you had conversed with your brother for longer. He would have likely told you of my situation and spared me the pain of explaining it myself."

"Darcy, what happened?"

"Look at me, Richard. Take a nice, close look. Does anything seem peculiar? My clothing, perhaps?"

Richard's eyes went wide as saucers. "My God, Darcy! Is that a servant frock you are wearing?"

Darcy nodded. "Indeed, it is. I have been serving as Signorina Isabella Caraggio's footman these past two months."

"Blimey! _What_?! Why, when, how?"

"Have you heard of Signorina Caraggio?"

Richard scrunched his face in thought. "Why, I believe I might have, before I left on my latest campaign. Say, was she not Lord Sarry's mistress?"

"His and many others', yes. She does not take on exclusive protectors."

"The divinely beautiful one who whips and dominates men? I think I remember now. It was all the rage a year ago. An odd fashion, if you ask me, but to each his own."

"Indeed. Well, I am now her servant."

"I – I do not understand."

Darcy couldn't help the glare he shot his cousin. "Darn it, Richard! For an experienced man, you are rather dim-witted. Yes, Isabella whips and dominates men who desire it. She would not accept me as a client on those terms, so I have applied for service in her employ."

One second, two, three. Finally Darcy's cousin put everything together. "You want to serve this woman and actually took on the role of her footman? As in, full time? You allowed your bedroom inclinations to spill into the rest of your life? You gave up your position, your status, your honor, _for sex_?"

"Not quite. I have not had the pleasure of being used by my Mistress in that way yet."

"Darcy, this is insane! How can you do this? When you said you were waiting for your mistress, I thought –"

"You thought I would be taking a woman to my box with me tonight. You were wrong. My Mistress is already inside the Opera House, with Sir Clancey. I am awaiting her return at the end of the performance."

"Insane," Richard muttered under his breath. "Why bother? Go in, enjoy the performance, and serve as her footman afterwards, if you wish. Why are you standing out here in the cold like a common servant?"

"Because that is what I am now, Richard. I am her servant."

"Darcy, this madness has to stop."

Tired, Darcy was no longer in the mood to humor his cousin. "I have no desire to speak further on this topic, Richard. If you cannot accept my choices, then so be it. That will not change them." Then he took a deep breath, and executed a low bow. "Sir, I implore you to go inside. It is a chilly night, and you have already missed the first act. It would be unseemly to miss any more of the performance to speak to a lowly servant." Then he remained resolutely silent until his cousin left, muttering angrily under his breath something about madness and saving.

He was mildly entertained by the juxtaposition of Richard's reaction with that of Lord Sarry. Where one man thought his choices insane, the other expressed admiration and envy. Indeed, as Richard had said, to each his own. But one thing was common between the two men, and likely all others: neither took his servitude seriously. It was viewed as a game he played, mad by some, delicious by others. But a game regardless. Eccentric, somewhat fashionable, his decision to be Isabella's servant was taken as a wealthy gentleman's caprice.

He was sure that his name was spoken of salaciously at the gentlemen's clubs, and in scandalized tones by the matrons of the _ton_. Not one of the fawning ladies approached him that evening outside of the opera house, not one matron threw her daughter at him. They avoided him, invisible as a real servant. But he also knew no one doubted for even a second that as soon as he tired of this charade, he would return to being a wealthy and powerful gentleman, and these same matrons would be more than happy to throw their daughters at him once again, his sins as Isabella Caraggio's footman fast forgiven if not forgotten.

But he had vowed to her, and he vowed to himself, that this would not pass. To him, it was no game, no caprice, no charade. There would be no ending, not to his love and devotion.


	7. Her Test

**This chapter was quite difficult to write. It's basically the tipping point of the story - and to get to the breaking point, things had to become pretty heated. It was tough sticking to Darcy's POV throughout but still offering a glimpse into Lizzy's thoughts and motivations.**

**If it helps, things will only go uphill from here. ;)**

* * *

_"The pleasure of seeing you again would more than compensate for all; but do you imagine that I can reflect without sighs and tears upon the degrading and unhappy life which you now wish me to lead in this house? Say nothing of my birth, or of my feelings of honour; love like mine derives no aid from arguments of that feeble nature; but do you imagine that I can without emotion see my love so badly recompensed, or rather so cruelly treated, by an ungrateful and unfeeling mistress?"_

Abbe Prevost,_ Manon Lescaut_

Darcy marveled at what a boon the revelation of his secret to Richard had turned out to be. In so many ways, it had been... liberating. One of the closest people to him, the only member of his family about whose opinion he truly cared, his friend, his confidant, the man with whom he had mourned Georgiana, his almost-brother now knew of his condition. There was nothing left that could be worse. Nothing left to lose.

And everything left to gain.

For the past three weeks, Elizabeth had been kind, almost gentle towards him. He thought he was beginning to pick up on certain looks and gestures of hers, on her likes and dislikes, on how best to please her. That she took pleasure in his body was more than apparent, and he took care to keep himself perfectly groomed for her. He delighted in being displayed in the nude before her whenever the occasion arose, and he was thrilled that she now accepted his submission. As her servant, he was not only allowed, but required to kneel in front of her. From her frequent taunts, he also deduced that she took especial satisfaction in his virginity. He was delighted to be pleasing to her in that way, and highlighted his own innocence at every opportunity, which seemed to please her further. He even began to wonder if that was the reason why he had not been summoned at night to be taken by her fully: that she enjoyed having a good-looking virgin male shower her with his adoration, and wished to keep him an innocent.

And so it was, that when Elizabeth asked him to strip one afternoon while serving her tea, it was nothing unusual. Darcy smiled as he complied.

Stood naked before her, he playfully enquire. "Would Mistress like to inspect her toy?"

A clear, tinkling laughter was his reward. His heart constricted with pleasure at being able to extract that sound of joy from her. She was thawing. He was making progress.

Her finger circled his erection. "What do _you _think of my toy, Fitzy?"

"I think it is ready and eager to serve you in any way you wish, Mistress."

"Is it good at giving pleasure?"

"I would not know, Mistress, it is brand new and has never been used."

"Mmmmm." There was a glistening drop at the head of his member, and he almost came when she leaned down and picked it up with her long pink tongue.

To be touched so tenderly, so intimately by his Mistress was more than he had ever dreamed of, and Darcy spoke earnestly, heatedly: "This toy belongs to you, my Mistress, as does the rest of me. It will always belong to you. It has never and will never be used by anyone other than you. Should you never desire me, I will remain an innocent always. I am _yours_."

When she caught his gaze with hers, her beautiful green eyes shone with delight. "Good boy." And the next thing he knew, her lips encircled his length, her tongue stroking him so enticingly, the wet softness of her mouth like nothing he had ever felt before, her head traveling upwards and back downwards to his base, once, twice... _"Mistress!"_

He attempted to withdraw from the heaven of her lips before exploding. He had become accustomed to the taste of his seed over the three months he had spent in her service, having been made to lick clean his mess after his releases, but the thought of soiling _her _mouth that way was insupportable. She did not let him out of her mouth him, however, and he momentarily forgot all earthly worries in the phenomenal climax. When he recovered, he was appalled to see her beautiful upturned face smiling up at him, a trickle of his seed marring her perfect lips. His unworthy seed had no place on those divine lips.

He was about to apologize for his sin, mentally berating himself for his error, but was prevented by her swift rise to her toes and the searing kiss she gave him. He had never been kissed by her, had never seen her kiss any of the footmen, had never imagined the pleasure of yielding under her insistent tongue.

When she pulled away, she looked disoriented and almost wild. "Why don't you go to your room and take care of your letters, Fitzwilliam," she dismissed him. She had never addressed him by his full given name before.

Inside his room, there was no way Darcy could focus on his business. The memories of his climax, of the unfathomable gift she had bestowed upon him, of how _she _had pleasured _him_, and then the passionate way she had kissed him kept him distracted for nearly two hours, until he heard someone open the unlocked door, invading the privacy of his small room.

"You think you're so high and mighty, don't you? Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley, seducing Isabella Caraggio as her devoted footman. But I remember you. The naughty boy who watched me please Mistress with my tongue half a year ago."

Darcy blushed at the recollection, but maintained the incomer's gaze. Johnny was young, handsome, virile, had a smooth Italian accent, and Darcy had always felt a deep rivalry. He was determined not to give in.

"Yes, Johnny, I am Mistress's newest naughty boy. Aren't we all?"

Johnny narrowed his eyes. It was obvious that he did not view Darcy favorably.

"Who is this 'we,' Fitzy? You and I are nothing alike. If you think for even a moment that you can come here and play this fantasy and replace me in her affections, think again."

"Oh?"

"You are just another perverted gentleman client, and it might amuse her for a time to have you as a footman. But you know nothing about serving a woman."

"A year is a long enough time to learn."

"A year? You think you will last here a year? She will tire of you within another few months. It might be fun for her now, but she will not be interested for long. Like all other gentlemen, you think of nothing but your own pleasure."

_She cannot throw me out within a few months; we have signed a year-long contract._ Knowing that this information would do nothing to negate Johnny's claims that Elizabeth wouldn't want him, Darcy chose a different approach. "Well, she has not tired of you yet, has she? And it's been how long?"

"Almost five years, actually." Johnny came right up to him, and leveled him with a nasty smirking gaze. "If you really care to know, I was her first, in the ways that count. The very first time that Signorina writhed in the throes of climax, it was from my lips and fingers and tongue. The first time she moaned with a cock in her mouth, it was my cock. I taught her about sex and about what she likes. I have been with her all this time, and I will continue to be her first and favorite lover."

Darcy firmly squashed the budding feelings of nausea and pain at the other man's words. Instead of giving way to his anguish, he held his own. "Do you like that, Johnny? Do you like that you were the first to please her?"

The other man smiled and fell straight into the trap. "Of course I do. And you will never have that."

Darcy rose to his full height, looking down at the other man with a wry half-smile.

"No, I will not have that. But I will have something far more precious. You love being the first to have pleased Isabella. That's a natural feeling, one that I am sure our Mistress will share. _She_ will love to be _my_ first. Instead of being her teacher, I will be her pupil, and if my understanding of her character is at all correct, she will much prefer that. I will not teach her what she likes, I will _become_ exactly what she likes. Every time she kisses my lips, it will be with the knowledge that no one had ever tasted them before. They will always be pliant and eager under hers. When she guides my inexperienced hands, she teaches them exactly how to touch her. She will take my innocence knowing that I have saved it for her. She will own my manhood confident that my desire is for her and her alone. Every moan, every sigh, every release of mine will be hers. Every movement will be trained and tailored precisely to please her. I will be her perfect lover, Johnny, by construction, no matter how many other men have come before me and how many more will come after."

The blond-haired boy looked simultaneously enraged and stunned, and remained speechless. But Darcy did not have long to rejoice in his triumph before he heard a cold voice rejoin:

"I do not appreciate arrogance and bragging in my servants, boy. You seem to have forgotten your place. You are the lowest ranked footman, and I will have you take care in how you speak to your superiors."

She looked stunning, with those dark flashing eyes, so angry and passionate. He felt his breath catch as bowed low before his Goddess. The memory of their recent interlude, so fresh in his mind and on the tip of his manhood made his heart race faster. "Mistress. Please forgive my impertinence."

"Impertinence is not simply forgiven in this house, Fitzy. It is punished. Johnny, fetch me a cane quickly. And you, boy, drop your pants and bend over the bed with your ass high up in the air."

Still reeling from the overwhelming happiness she had produced, Darcy felt a flash of excitement at finally being disciplined by Elizabeth. She had allowed Nana to whip him, but had yet to punish him herself. The thought of his Goddess thrashing his buttocks excited him, although the presence of the gloating Johnny was rather vexing.

He quickly lowered his garments and draped himself over the small bed as instructed. Awaiting Johnny's return with the cane, Elizabeth ran a finger slowly down the crack between his cheeks, and he shivered with arousal.

"Why are you being punished, Darcy?"

"For bragging and for speaking disrespectfully to your higher-ranked servant, Mistress."

"Correct. And how many strokes of the cane do you think you deserve?"

"As many as you would find adequate to correct my poor behavior, Mistress."

"Mmm, good boy. I think ten should do for the first time."

"The cane, Mistress." Johnny had returned. "Shall I leave you now?"

"No. Stay here and watch this naughty boy's punishment. He will need to apologize to you afterwards."

Darcy let out a groan of frustrated humiliation.

But as Eizabeth delivered the punishing strokes and chastised him, realization struck him. She had told him off for speaking arrogantly to a higher ranked footman and degraded him in front of the other man. But she did not negate a single thing of what he had said. Combined with their recent encounter and the deliciously flashing anger mixed with some other passionate feeling in her eyes, this could only mean one thing. _I was right. And Elizabeth hates it. She is punishing me for pointing out that, which she does not wish to admit. That the thought of taking my innocence, teaching me how to please her, and making exactly what she wants out of me excites her, greatly._

With this newfound knowledge, Darcy weathered his humiliation remarkably well. And when he was made to offer his humble apology to the smirking Johnny, he did so with a light feeling of almost contentment.

"Sir, I apologize for speaking disrespectfully to you. I am aware that you are my superior and promise to behave better in future. I hope that the spanking I have just received will help me learn my lesson."

Elizabeth made him turn around and stick out his punished rear. "What do you think, Johnny, has this naughty boy been punished enough? His sore buttocks are nice and red now. That should help him remember his place."

Johnny bowed respectfully to her, hiding his satisfied smirk. "I hope so, Mistress. Of course, you know best how to punish your boys."

Elizabeth left him then, mercifully taking Johnny with her.

He had not been summoned or given any orders for the rest of the day, and as he wondered the halls idly in the evening, he heard the now-familiar Nana's voice from the sitting room.

"I do not see what the problem is, Bella. If you are enjoying yourself, then why deny yourself happiness?"

"Because I can't, Nana!" His beloved Mistress's voice sounded frenzied and perturbed. Despite himself, Darcy stayed to eavesdrop, wishing so desperately to learn what troubled his Goddess. "He is playing me, tricking me, causing me to lose sight of everything I have believed for five years!"

"He wants to be yours and you want to own him. It sounds rather simple to me, ma cherie."

"I pleasured him with my mouth and I _swallowed_, Nana!" Her voice was hushed, nearly a whisper, with a note of desperation and shame. Darcy's heart skipped a beat at the realization that they were speaking of him. "I have never done that since my earliest days, since learning what I like and how to take control. But with this insufferable man, I am not myself, it's like I _wanted _to pleasure him just because he made such an excellent show of being utterly mine."

"Isn't that what he is - yours? He has given up an awful lot to serve you."

There was a long, heavy pause. "No." Darcy felt a surge of anger at her short answer. Hadn't he shown his devotion and submission enough? "No, I do not believe him, Nana. I cannot. If I let myself go, he will only take advantage. That is what he did in the past."

"Surely, he is far from the man he was then."

"Is he? He is doing all that he has to do to get what he wants. How do I know that underneath he is not the same selfish creature? He demanded this service, but only because _he _wanted it. The moment I push too hard, he will be gone."

"I understand why you might not trust him, Isabella. But I also think that he has changed quite a bit from the man you knew all those years ago. Why don't you test him?"

Another long, uncomfortable pause, and then a quiet but steely: "I will."

That night, Mr. Jenson put Darcy to work for hours outside in the cold, and for the days and weeks to come he was given such an inordinate amount of manual labor that he did not have the lengthy time he would have liked to mull over all that he had overheard.

By the second week of his increased duties, spent and tired and frustrated and not having caught even a glimpse of his Mistress, Darcy was far from any kind of analytical thinking. Some mechanical part of his rational thinking would occasionally remind him of those two words of hers, _'I will_', and that he was being tested. But by this point, he simply did not care.

By the third week he had adjusted, had even gotten sufficient rest, and his physical exhaustion and frustration subsided. But having been denied Elizabeth's company and her permission to touch himself, he was growing frustrated in other ways. The image of her lips around his manhood had become such a distant memory that he began to wonder whether he had imagined it.

But by that point, three months into his service, for the first time, Darcy was chosen by Mr. Jenson as the best performing footman. He finally earned the right to handle Elizabeth's intimate garments. Having been denied the pleasure of tasting her for several weeks, Darcy was beyond himself with excitement at finally catching a whiff of that heady aroma that was so very _Elizabeth_.

Her items were as delicate and beautiful as he remembered from those few glorious times between her legs. He gently stroked the lace, then brought it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. _Elizabeth._

He contented himself with the sense of smell for as long as he could, before allowing his eager tongue to lap at the cloth. One pair, in particular, was freshly moist. _She must have enjoyed her time with my cousin Montegue this morning._

He continued to taste her for several minutes before forcing himself to stop. Elizabeth had not given him permission for release, and he would inevitably disobey her if he kept going. So with a disappointed sigh, he lowered her precious items into the basin of water, and began to soap them.

Later, as he presented the freshly cleaned garments to Elizabeth, she inspected them carefully, then pronounced his work satisfactory.

"Well done, Fitzy. For a first time, you are quite capable at laundry." He felt a warm glow at her praise. "Now, tell me, boy, did you press your naughty nose against my drawers?"

Darcy blushed. "Yes, Mistress."

"And did you touch them with your dirty little tongue?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Tsk, tsk, naughty boy. Did I give you permission to taste and smell my undergarments?"

"N-no, Mistress. I am sorry, Mistress."

"Hm, I will have to punish you later. Tell me, were there any that you particularly enjoyed sniffing and licking?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Which?"

He was so humiliated. "The light rose ones, Mistress. I could still taste your dampness on them."

"Ah yes, the ones I wore when your cousin worshipped my feet. I suppose I really did like his ministrations. Are you grateful to your cousin for making me so aroused?"

Darcy had not thought of it that way, but responded in the only way he knew he must. "I – I suppose I am, Mistress."

"Then you must thank him, boy. Lucky for you, he is here now, in the drawing room."

_Had she planned all of this?_

As if in a trance, he followed her to the drawing room, where the Duke of Montegue was kneeling in the middle of the room.

"Rise, my pet," Elizabeth commanded, and Darcy's cousin rose. "Sit. My footman would like to speak with you, if you would allow him."

Montegue looked intrigued. "Yes, of course. What did you want to say, Fitzy?"

"I –" _Oh God, how can I get this out? Why, Elizabeth, why must you be so intend to __debase me in every way possible? _Then his mind produced the faint echo of a conversation. _'Why don't you test him?.'-'I will.'_ And he gathered his strength: "I would like to thank you, sir."

"Thank me? For what?"

"For pleasing my Mistress so well two days ago, sir."

Montegue smirked. "I am always glad to be of service to your Mistress, Fitz."

"Tell him why you are so grateful, Darcy. No need to be coy." He wondered if it was on purpose, the way she called him Darcy whenever she was most intend on humiliating him.

"I am grateful because it was my honor to clean Mistress's undergarments this week, and the ones she wore on that day were deliciously moist, sir." Darcy scrunched his eyes shut in shame.

He heard his cousin gasp in shock, then dissolve into a fit of laughter. "Oh my, Darcy, what a naughty little boy you have become! Did you lick Isabella's drawers that were made wet by my attentions?"

"Yes, sir."

Elizabeth chose that moment to rejoin the conversation. "And did you have permission to do so, boy?"

Frightening realization dawned on Darcy. _She is going to humiliate me further by punishing me in front of my cousin._

Resigned, he played along. "No, Mistress. I was a very naughty boy to lick the moisture off your garments without permission. I know that I deserve to be punished."

"Bare your bottom, Darcy, and bend over, with your hands around your ankles." As he began to follow her instructions, she turned to his cousin. "Pet, would you please help me? I do not have any implements with me, and my hand is not strong enough to deliver the spanks with necessary force. A man's hand would be much better in correcting this naughty boy."

Montegue seemed taken aback. "Isabella, perhaps –"

"Are you going to obey me, my pet?" She demanded imperiously.

"Yes, of course, Mistress." And with those words of agreement, the Duke of Montegue began delivering sound smacks to Fitzwilliam Darcy's bare buttocks.

Darcy wondered if his cousin was as uncomfortable with this situation as he was. _Unlikely. I am the one sticking my rear out to be punished by another man, a man who is not only Elizabeth's lover but my own relation._

His spanking complete, Darcy was sent to the corner with his glowing red backside on display, while his cousin was permitted to fulfill the intention of his visit: serving their Goddess and being brought to release with sensual strokes of her bare feet.

With their session complete and Darcy released from his punishment, Montegue approached him before leaving.

"Darcy, you know that I am as fond of Isabella's domination as anyone else, but quite frankly, I think what you are getting yourself into is rather extreme. Did you truly enjoy being spanked by my hand? Because to tell you the truth, I found it quite unpleasant."

"I was being punished, sir. It was not meant to be enjoyable."

The Duke guffawed. "Oh, come on, that is the entire point of Isabella's punishments: to be enjoyable."

"Perhaps to a gentleman such as yourself, sir. But as a servant, I am punished in earnest."

"Darcy, must you refuse to speak to me seriously? You are my cousin and a gentleman, no matter what games you play with courtesans. No one takes you seriously for a servant, though to be honest, people are beginning to think you quite insane. No one expected this charade to last for more than a month, at most two. It has been three months already, and you are showing no intention of stopping. It can be amusing, even admirable for a while, but you are risking serious damage to your reputation if you keep going this way."

"Thank you for your warning, sir. My employment contract with my Mistress is drawn for a year, and I fully intend to keep to it."

"A year?! A year in which you actually allow her to punish you in any way she chooses, regardless of whether you enjoy it or not?"

"Yes, sir."

Montegue shook his head, shocked. "You are insane. I was impressed at first, that a man as inexperienced as you could be playing such a serious game. But now I am fully convinced that you are a fool of the highest order. Why are you doing this?" He paused, thoughtful. "No! This cannot be. You _must_ enjoy it!"

"I enjoy serving my Mistress, sir. I do not derive any particular pleasure from being punished by her lover's hand, but I like to please her in every way I can."

Montegue gave him one last concerned look, then shrugged, giving up, and departed.

That night, for the first time in his three months in Elizabeth's employ, Darcy allowed himself to cry. His cousin was right. Enduring a year of this torment would prove difficult. Three months had gone by, and things had only become worse.

Elizabeth had seemed almost considerate at first, but now she appeared to be doing all in her power to hurt him. _Why? What is she trying to achieve?_

_'Why don't you test him?' - 'I will.'_

He had some faint notion that perhaps she was attempting to dissuade him from his course. She felt that she had given in too easily, she did not trust him, she wanted to prove that she could break him. _Why, my Goddess, why? Why don't you accept me and allow us both to be happy? Why must you make us both miserable instead?_

Those were the only tears he allowed himself. Steeled, stubborn, determined, he withstood the next month of her alternating ostracism and taunting. He comported himself as her perfect slave, no matter how much she hurt him. All the while repeating those overheard words as a mantra. _'Why don't you test him?' - 'I will.'_

And then, one wonderful night, he could barely contain his excitement. _She has called for me!_ He had waited four months for this moment.

Eager and hesitant at the same time, blushing furiously and already aroused, he entered her chamber and knelt before her.

"You have asked for my company, Mistress?"

"Yes, boy. I would like to try you out tonight, and hope you can please me."

"I would do anything to please you." He looked up at her, his gaze earnest and hopeful. She looked away.

"Disrobe."

With trembling fingers, he hurried to undress, releasing his erection from its confines. It had been a full month since she had last allowed him to touch himself.

He stood naked and waiting before her, in titillating anticipation of things to come.

She stood, came up to him from behind, and gently ran a finger down his spine, eliciting a throaty moan. Pressing herself against his back, she wound a arm around his torso, taking his manhood in her hand and giving it two quick strokes.

"My, what an excited little boy you are, Fitzy. Do you want me?"

"Yes, Mistress. Oh God, I have wanted you for so long."

"So eager, so horny. I have always liked my servants best of all. The gentlemen pay well, but the footmen are so very willing and virile."

He did not know how to respond, instead remaining silent and closing his eyes, giving way to the pleasure she was inducing.

She continued speaking, now giving him agonizingly slow strokes. "You, men from lower classes, are so much more… primal. So worldly and simple and full of sex. You know what I mean, don't you, Fitzy? All those tumbles in the hay you have had with the maids."

Later, in retrospect, he would recognize her words for what they were: a provocation. But in the moment, he did not think. He only reacted. Forcefully removing her hand and spinning around, he faced her and responded heatedly:

"That may well be true about your real footmen, Mistress, but you know that I am not like that. You know I have never tumbled with maids or been with a woman. As a gentleman, I have maintained my honor at the highest level."

Something flashed in her eyes, something heated and malicious and almost insane. Yet at the same time there was a trace of both sadness and pain in her fine green orbs.

"I will not condescend to discuss your past lack of honor, sir. I will only say that I do not appreciate such arrogant superiority in my servants. If you are going to be my footman, the lowest ranked one no less, then please do me the favor of refraining from separating yourself from the others. Are you my servant or a gentleman? Make up your mind, sir."

She took a calming breath and turned away. Then spoke in a cool, collected tone that pierced him. "I have no further desire for your company tonight. I would like to receive my pleasure from a servant, not a self-important gentleman. Go tell Johnny that his presence is requested in my bedchamber because you have been unable to please me."

Darcy was immediately struck with the monumental size of his error. Trembling with panic, he fell to his knees and clung to the back of her legs. "No, no, please, Elizabeth, no! Don't do this. I am sorry, I did not mean it like that. I am yours, God, all yours, please allow me to make it up. Please do not drive me away now."

"_Go_." She harshly pushed him away and exited to the adjoining sitting room, the door closing firmly behind her.

In a trance, he obeyed. Dressed, walked, spoke.

"Johnny, Mistress has requested for you to attend her. I was not able to satisfy her." He hung his head low under the weight of his shame.

With a triumphant smirk and a few degrading words, Johnny left to attend to Darcy's beloved. The others surrounded him, laughing and jeering and goading, but Darcy could barely make out what they were saying. The public humiliation was nothing compared to the private turmoil within him.

_It has all been a mistake. Did I really think I could do this?_ He had been so confident four months before, thinking that by signing up for this degrading life he could somehow prove his love and repentance to Elizabeth. But she remained now as unwilling to accept him as ever, and for the first time he felt completely and utterly hopeless.

_'Why don't you test him?' - 'I will.' _Even those words, even his secret knowledge did nothing to reassure him this time. Being denied her presence he could suffer, knowing that it was a test. Being humiliated in front of his cousin and others he could endure, knowing that she was testing him. But being invited to the doors of heaven and then dropped into hell as he had been tonight - it was enough to break any man.

_What should I do?_ He knew, of course he knew, that he could walk away at any time. No matter how much he had debased himself over the previous year, he remained a gentleman and a wealthy landowner, and she – a courtesan. Signing a contract, in truth, meant nothing; she had no protection under the law. But that was precisely what Elizabeth had predicted and precisely what he had guaranteed would not happen. Precisely the reason for her cruel test.

He could not go back on his word. But neither could he continue this way. This life, this torture, was beginning to suffocate him.

* * *

**So what should our tragic hero do?**


	8. Her Condition

_Doubt thou the stars are fire,_

_Doubt that the sun doth move,_

_Doubt truth to be a liar,_

_But never doubt I love._

_\- _William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

It was a relief that the day after his ill-fated summons to his Goddess's bedchamber, he was left alone and ignored by the entire household staff. He briefly wondered if his Mistress had asked others to leave him be in an effort to spare him any further humiliation after the previous evening's disaster, but he did not care. He had been crushed too far to be lifted by this morsel of her generosity. These slight signs of her goodwill had been enough to sustain him, but no more. He needed things to change, badly.

It was a further relief that that very day was his weekly afternoon off to tend to the Darcy affairs. He would use this time well, deciding on a drastic step.

One indisputable advantage to having served as Elizabeth's footman for four full months was the detailed knowledge of her daily habits. At this time, three o'clock in the afternoon, she would be in her study attending to her correspondence. Occasionally, in about an hour, he or another footman would serve her tea. A month ago, she had asked him to put down the tray and disrobe, and then...

_Damn it. These thoughts are not helping now. _He angrily glanced down at his quickly hardening manhood. _Damn eager thing_. It had been a month already, and God only knew how much longer still until his owner would condescend to grant his yearning member a release. _But that is not what matters. The eroticism of my situation has done nothing to dispel the psychological torment._

He almost finished dressing in his gentlemanly garments as he typically did at that time on Monday afternoons, when he suddenly changed his mind.

Ten minutes later, suppressing his fear and hesitation, he boldly stepped into his Mistress's study.

She gasped, startled. "Fitzy." He thought her voice was higher than usual, before she coughed and regained the smoothness of her calm tones. "What are you doing here?"

"Good afternoon, Miss Bennet." He yearned to call her _Mistress_, but forced himself to stay on the offensive. He had to make this work. Somehow. He _had _to.

Deliciously sparkling anger flashed through those fine eyes that he so worshipped and adored. "I may have forgiven you the impertinence of entering my study without being summoned, but addressing me in such a manner is insupportable. Go tell Jenson that you have been a very bad boy and need twenty lashings of the cane."

His heart raced with simultaneous desire and rage. How he wished she would deliver the punishing strokes of the cane herself, taunting him, chastising him, owning him. How he hated the way she always tried to run away, to close herself off, to hide behind their roles, her dominance and his submission, to deny him her presence and her full ownership, to send him elsewhere.

"I am afraid my punishment will have to wait, Miss Bennet. It is three thirty in the afternoon, on a Monday."

Her eyes first widened marginally in comprehension, and then narrowed in wary mistrust. "Then what are you doing here, Mr. Darcy? And why are you not dressed?"

He had come into her study stark naked, but as he spoke, it was with the voice of the Master of Pemberley, not the devoted servant. The idea, the message that he so desperately hoped to convey that afternoon, was that the two were one and the same, and both inexorably hers. "I am engaged in the same activity as every week at this time, madam: the personal business of Fitzwilliam Darcy. And I am dressed exactly as I find appropriate."

"I do not have the pleasure of understanding you." Her tone was imperious and perfectly composed, but he saw the light trembling of her delicate hands. _She fears me_.

_And yet she has not called for her other servants to escort me away._

"Miss Bennet, Elizabeth," he addressed her softly, seeking to put her at ease, yet maintaining the firmness of his tone. "I am not wearing my uniform because I have come not as your servant. Nor did I don my gentlemanly attire, for I am not here as a gentleman. I am here as a man, _your _man. Both the footman and the gentleman are mere decorations around the man that you own, and I will not leave until you accept him in his entirety just as he is - nude, and eager, and _yours_. Stop the pretense, stop the games. _Now,_ Elizabeth!"

"Mr. Darcy -"

"Fitzwilliam. Please. Let me be your Fitzwilliam."

He took a step towards her, and she took a step back. He took another, and she looked around feverishly for escape. His tall, muscled naked body was a mere foot away from her, and he saw real panic in those deep green eyes.

"Come, Lizzy. Enough is enough."

"Fitzwilliam, _please -" _

And the moment he saw the glistening tear on her trembling lashes, he enveloped her small frame in his arms. No matter how much pain she had brought him, no matter how much more bittersweet pain she would continue to bring him throughout their lives, he could not bear to see her suffering.

"Marry me, Lizzy." And he held her tighter as he felt her begin to sob. "Marry me and I will be yours. Your slave, your servant, your footman, - oh blast it! anything you want. Only you must not shut me out. You must not run from me all the time. You must not, you need not test me. Only grant me your acceptance and I promise to be yours."

He kept speaking softly, and she continued to sob. Once he felt her calm down, he made the mistake of releasing her from his arms, and instantly regretted it. She immediately turned and took several steps away from him. Facing the window, she remained silent for some long moments before speaking in her usual detached tones.

"You are spewing nonsense, Fitzwilliam. If you wish to remain in my service, then leave here at once and resume your duties tomorrow morning. If you are no longer capable of being my footman, then admit that you cannot truly bear the servant life and that you have tired of your fantasy, and I will willingly release you."

"No! No, Elizabeth, stop it. You know full well that I have bourn far more than any other man would. You do not treat me as your other footmen, you do not treat me as merely a servant. You treat me as abominably as you possibly can in some misguided attempts to prove that I do not want to serve you. That is absurd, Miss Bennet! Can you really say that I am not truly your servant, after I have submitted without complaint to every degradation you have thought to put me through? After I displayed myself as your servant for all the world to see for four months? After I permitted my bare behind to be whipped not only by your friend but by a man who is your lover? Please, Elizabeth, do not be unreasonable. I am yours and you know it. Admit it. That is all I ask. I will bear all the humiliations you have put me through and more, and I will do so joyfully and proudly. But _only _if you properly accept me."

She turned around, and regarded him thoughtfully, still apprehensively but now curiously. "Very well, I accept you, Fitzwilliam. I will treat you the same as my other footmen."

He shook his head ruefully. "No, that will not do. It might have been enough for me four months ago, but no more. I wish to be yours, but in some small, symbolic way I _need _you to be mine. Marry me, please."

He had thought long and hard through the sleepless night that preceded. He was well aware that to the outside world, the notion of marriage between them would seem absurd. His reputation would sink, irreparably. To marry one's mistress was unheard of. To marry a notorious courtesan with unorthodox inclinations was worse. He would be the laughingstock of society, and he did not give a damn. This woman owned him, controlled him, consumed him. His wealth, his status, his reputation - nothing he had mattered _without_ her. And he was now firmly convinced that marriage was the only way he could be _with _her and not go insane. Their children? He would never have children with any woman other than her, and her offspring's future was bleaker than bleak unless she married. It was the only answer. The only course of action that was both natural and right. Half delirious with exhaustion and emotional stress, deep in the night, he had marveled that the solution was so elegantly simple.

The laugh she let out was hollow and bitter, and he hated that she did not understand. "So that is what you want! To own and control me. No, never. Once, in what felt like another lifetime, I have chosen the demimonde for the simple reason that I could not bear to be under the control of the one man who had ruined my life. What makes you think that I would waver from that course now?"

"I have no desire to control you, Elizabeth."

"Is that not what you have just said - that you need me to be yours? You could not have made your feelings any more clear, Fitzwilliam, and I have had quite enough. My answer is no."

"No?"

"I will not marry you."

"Do not be ridiculous. I am offering you the position of the Mistress of Pemberley and the Mistress of a most devoted husband. If it is the amorous freedom that entices you so, then by all means, continue your liaisons. Surely, there is nothing else about the life of a courtesan that could possibly best the life of a wife so fully in control of her husband. Can your bruised pride from so long ago be more important to you than your comfort and security?"

She looked affronted, but after a brief hesitation, said simply: "I thank you for your offer, Mr. Darcy, but I must refuse. I trust you can escort yourself out. Good day, sir."

He could not let her go so easily. Taking hold of her delicate wrist in his large hand, he spoke more harshly than he intended to: "Wait. I wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected."

"I will not be your plaything, Mr. Darcy. Whatever assurances you make to me now can be changed at the flick of your fingers. As your wife, I will be entirely and utterly under your control, no matter how many times you allow me to order you about and whip your behind."

"You do not trust me, even now, even after everything." He said it simply, and almost emotionlessly, but it hurt, a lot.

She did not deign him with a response as she turned away.

Dejected, Darcy quit her study, quickly dressed, and left for the Darcy House once and for all. His hopes had been dashed, and he felt nauseous with grief. He would never have her, never serve her, never worship her again. Her terms were hollow and empty and enough to suffocate his very being, and his terms filled her with fear. Oh how he wished he had never given her cause for fear. Oh how he wished she had been stronger than to break under her mistrust.

He did not accept visitors that day, or for days to come. He did not wish to see the curiosity, the concern, the compassion, the joy, the wonder. He did not want to be asked about the past four months, he did not want to be judged or applauded or pitied. He avoided his club, the theater, Hyde Park. The one time he went to visit his Uncle, he passed by the Opera House and remembered with fond nostalgia his evenings out in the cold by the carriage, awaiting his Mistress.

On his way to Pemberley, his carriage crossed paths with the Perkinsons. Mr. and Mrs. Perkinson greeted him with broad smiles and reverent tones. The eldest Miss Perkinson fluttered her lashes at him behind her fan. He was back to being a sough-after gentlemen, one of the most eligible bachelors of the _ton_. Admired, respected, desired.

How he yearned to be teased, taunted, punished. He would give anything to be back at her feet. Anything but his principles. No matter how much he longed to, he could not go back without her full acceptance. And that, she had denied him. His Goddess would never become Mrs. Darcy.

He passed his days half buried in his estate business, more often than not catching himself gazing off into the distance, into some bittersweet daydream. The luscious carpets would tempt him with imaginations of what the texture would feel like against his stubbled chin as he would brush his face humbly against the floor to kiss her feet. The elaborate tea service would fill him with yearning to disrobe and serve. After one attempt, he gave up on riding altogether; the feeling of the riding crop in his hand was wrong, all so wrong. How he longed to feel it against his bare punished backside instead!

He passed his nights in frenzied half-sleep intermingled with these same images intensified tenfold. His fantasies were so much more torturously vivid at night. Groaning with irritation, silently begging for mercy, occasionally he would give in and grant languid strokes to his famished manhood. It had been six weeks, seven, eight. Yet each and every time, he stopped himself in time not to reach climax. He did not know which he hated more: the weakness of touching himself or the uselessly stubborn strength of stopping before his release. _I belong to her_. He was going insane.

And then, one melancholic day under the light drizzle poetically interspersed with the warm rays of the setting sun, he felt himself stir back alive. After a dreary month alone in the countryside, he was shocked to see her beautiful figure in his late mother's rose garden.

"Mistre - Miss Bennet." Had she accepted his proposal, he could greet her as he wished, on his knees, his eager tongue pressed against her delicate slippers. But she had refused him, she did not want him. _Then why is she here?_

"Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy. I hope my presence does not displease you?"

"No. Never. Although I am at a loss -"

"You have a delightful rose garden. Would you be so kind as to take a turn with me, sir?"

"Yes, of course, madam."

He understood that she did not wish to be questioned or interrupted, so he allowed her a full minute to gather herself enough to speak. His patience was rewarded beyond his wildest expectations. "I wish to know whether the offer you have made last month still stands."

Without hesitation, he hurried to reply. "Always."

She smiled at him sadly. "Not so quickly, please, sir. There have been some changes... in my circumstances. It would be unconscionable of me not to inform you of them, and once I do - I very much doubt your decision would stand."

"There is nothing you can say that would prevent me from desiring to be your husband, Miss Bennet."

She looked away from him and lowered her head before blurting out. "I am with child."

"With child?"

"Yes. It was a little over a fortnight ago since I have known."

"I see." He took a deep breath to regulate his breathing. "And have you come to tease me? To torment me? To mock me?"

"No, I have come -"

"To humiliate me one last time for your cruel enjoyment? To wave in front of my nose that which I shall never have? To remind me of my marriage proposal when you know that we cannot marry?"

Her brilliant eyes flashed with rage, and for a moment her lovely hand flew up as if to slap him, but then balled into a fist and fell back at her side. He took a perverse joy in the motion; she no longer had the right to hit him.

"I knew it," she hissed. "I knew you were a man and not the saint you portrayed yourself to be. What pretty words, _'there is nothing you can say that would prevent me from desiring to be your husband, Miss Bennet.' _And how quickly they turned to dusk! How long did it take to change your mind, half a moment? Or an entire second perhaps?"

"What in the devil's name are you saying, Miss Bennet?"

"You, who proclaimed to wish to marry me unconditionally declared it to be impossible only a moment later. Can you deny it?"

"I have no wish to deny it. My desires in this case have no bearing on the events that will unfold. And I cannot ascribe your coming here to anything other than a cruel wish to taunt me."

She shook her head and began to walk away. Then paused, turned, and sadly murmured. "I had no wish to taunt you, not now. I was sincere in my question. You had said that you would suffer anything to be mine and to have me as your wife. I had foolishly hoped that you might be willing to overlook even another man's child. It was naive and stupid, forgive me."

He stood numbly watching her walk to her carriage, unable to comprehend what she had just said. _Does she truly mean...?_

"Wait! Miss Bennet!" He ran after her with all the exuberance of a man who felt hope for the first time in months.

Panting, he stopped her with his hands on her shoulders. "Miss Bennet, you misunderstood me."

"Please, Mr. Darcy, there is no point in continuing this interview further. I understand you perfectly, and, in truth, cannot fault you."

"No, no, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, you do not understand anything at all. I wish to marry you still, desperately, ardently! And I will do so the moment you allow it."

"But you said it to be impossible..."

He hated seeing her so uncertain, so vulnerable. "Only because I had thought it to be so, but not on my side, believe me, my darling. I had assumed that you would wish to marry the father of your child. It seemed natural and evident to me, and I could only attribute your presence here to a desire to torment me with your blissful marriage to another man."

She shook her head mutely, regarding him as if he had grown a second head.

"Do you truly wish to marry me, Elizabeth? Not the man whose child you carry?"

"Yes. If you are willing to have me."

"Of course, my Lizzy. I am yours, and desire nothing more than to belong to you for the rest of my life."

"Even if I carry another's child?"

"Even if you carry a dozen children by a dozen men. If you allow me to be their father in name, then I will be their father in every way I can."

"You are too good, Fitzwilliam." She began to sob and rant and she allowed him the otherworldly pleasure of holding her tenderly in his arms throughout her breakdowns.

She stayed with him at Pemberley, and later that evening, she allowed him to kneel in the nude before her and bathe her feet, massaging them gently. When he permitted himself the audacity of taking the tip of her toes between his lips, she did not draw away, did not push him aside, did not reprimand him. She smiled a tired, lazy smile, and leaned back on the settee. As he worshiped her lovely arches and suckled her petite toes, she let out a moan of pleasure that, to him, felt like sheer heaven.

When he hesitantly enquired after the identity of her child's father, she replied that she did not know for certain. "Lord Sarry, most likely. We had an accident at approximately the right time. But it could have also been Dufenger or Johnny."

She asked him again whether he was truly willing to accept another man's child, and he answered wholeheartedly that he was. Even if it was not a product of his loins, it was a product of _her_, and as such, he would always adore it.

Growing bolder, she teased him: "Did you not say, during your proposal, that I could continue to maintain my liaisons if I so desired?"

It pleased him to see her recovering to her old self. He liked her confident, dominant, and assured. It pained him more than he liked to admit to see her vulnerable and uncertain. "Yes, my Mistress. I will be yours, and you may do whatever you please." He liked the smile that brightened her face, and offered her more: "And you may keep me an innocent for as long as you desire. It might please you to be married to one of the most sought-after men of the ton, but to continually deny him. Only think of the prospect: an obedient virginal husband with nearly fifteen thousand a year, who follows your every command!"

She laughed and swatted him playfully. "You naughty boy, are you attempting to arouse me? I should spank you for it."

"I wish you would."

She leaned down to where he was comfortably sat, nude and erect, at her feet, and gave him the second kiss in his life.

* * *

**Ah, at last, things are looking up for these two! :)**

**I had originally planned this story to be 8 chapters, but the denouement in Chapters 6 and 7 needed more space, and I would also like to do the ending justice. So the new estimate is 10 chapters in total.**


	9. Her Husband

**I find the idea of offering defensive responses to negative reviews both immature and silly, so I will not. Though I am sad to see that people really don't seem to be getting things (kudos to "Intrigued Reader" and "madame fish", btw, who do appear to have figured it out; and I did amend the story warning per one "Guest"'s suggestion).**

**But there's one thing that utterly confounds me: the frequent references to ****_Fifty Shades of Grey_****. Seriously?! I offer a different literary reference that has inspired me in every chapter... and people ****_still _****think that this story was somehow affected by ****_Fifty Shades_****? Let me assure you that I have never read or seen any of that nonsense (in the interests of full disclosure, I did once stumble upon the original version on this very site, but did not go further than skimming through a couple chapters - while the writing was far better than average for FF, the very ****_not _****self-aware mix of Cinderella-fantasy with manipulation-abuse was really not my thing). **

**Humans of today, do you truly believe that ****_Fifty Shades_**** is the ultimate influence on all current BDSM-themed writing? We have Sacher-Masoch, de Sade, Rousseau, even occasionally Dostoevsky, for goodness' sake! Hardcopies, electronic copies, free copies courtesy of the Gutemberg project. There are three operas written off of Prevost's ****_Manon Lescaut _****alone. If that's too "classy", then I believe there are also some modern texts (though I confess to not having read them) that may be of adequate quality - my understanding is that both Anne Desclos and Anne Rice trump E.L. James (incidentally, I originally typed E.J. Elliot, did a double take, googled, fixed; yes, I do not even remember her name! ;)) as far as BDSM. Or, you know, there's _Venus in Furs_ the musical.**

* * *

"But now he had for life this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat."

\- Gustave Flaubert, _Madame Bovary_

"You are out of your mind!" His two cousins exclaimed almost in unison. After navigating through dozens of curious greetings and questions upon his first entrance into his old club in months, Darcy had taken Montegue and Fitzwilliam aside. But his invitation to his upcoming nuptials was met with dismay and opposition.

"Be that as it may," he answered mildly, unwilling to engage in lengthy debate on the subject, "you are both invited."

Apparently, debate was harder to avoid than he had hoped. Richard, the more enraged of the the two, tried first. "Darcy, you cannot marry that woman! It is better than serving as her footman, to be sure, but marriage is permanent! Think of the damage you will do to your reputation that, this time, cannot be undone!"

"While I agree with your sentiments for the most part, Colonel, I would beg to differ," Montegue chimed in. "Marriage is most certainly _worse _than his fantastical service. You do not share my and Darcy's proclivities, but surely, you can see the objective truth: _my _reputation suffers not one bit from the time I spend at Isabella's beautiful feet."

_Great, now my cousins are engaged in an argument on the virtues and vices of courtesans. _Darcy sighed. "Gentlemen -"

Alas, Richard would not forego his turn:

"Very true. But neither can you argue that there is not all the difference between _your _activities and what Darcy here has been getting himself into. You see a courtesan and pay her for a service - a service that I do not understand, but that is apparently quite in vogue. Darcy transformed himself into an actual footman, twenty four hours a day for four months. He didn't come to the club and banter about his latest whipping as Sarry does. He whiled his hours away as a real servant! And his reputation _did _suffer."

"There, you are absolutely correct, good Colonel. But it was still better than _marrying _her!"

"Yes," Richard readily conceded. "No matter how absurd, the situation was temporary. Marriage is irreversible."

"Enough," Darcy spoke up sterner. "I wish to marry her, and I will. For me, there is no better woman than Isabella Caraggio." He gave his cousin a mournful look. "I had thought you, at least, would understand, Montegue. Would you not wish for a wife so well suited to your own proclivities?"

Montegue seemed taken aback by the direct question, so devoid of any disguise or pretense. "I - yes, I would. If I could find a woman of gentle birth and immaculate reputation who would treat me with the same command as Isabella, I would not think twice before taking her as my wife. The issue here is that you are thinking of marrying a known courtesan. It is the worst offense a gentleman can commit against his honor."

"And yet it is no offense to engage in all forms of debauchery with this courtesan _without _marrying her? If that is society's notion of honor, that I do not care for it one bit." Darcy leveled his relation with a cold look. "And good luck finding a gently bred maiden who would order you to worship her feet, Montegue. At some point, you just have to decide: to follow the rules, or to pursue what you wish."

His cousin seemed taken aback by that last proclamation. "Very well, I see you are set in your course. It remains only for me to congratulate you."

Richard was not so easily appeased. "I still think this is madness," he grumbled under his breath.

"Do you not wish to attend?"

There was a long pause before Richard sighed in defeat. "No, Darcy, I will be there. You mean too much for me to give up your acquaintance, even though I have no understanding for your lifestyle and no desire for your bride's debauched company."

Attempting to liven the mood, Montegue jested: "In some ways, you will be one lucky devil, Darcy! I sure will miss Isabella's beautiful body and strict command."

Darcy froze. _Now is the time_. He thought back to the conversation with his beloved Goddess in which she had explicitly declared that he be the one to impart this piece of information to his cousin. Their relationship had flourished after she had come to Pemberley, and he was certain that she cared for him in her own way, but she continued to find joy in degrading him. Oddly, he did not mind. These occasional humiliations were well worth being comfortably and permanently hers.

And so Darcy steeled himself and offered: "You need not give any of it up."

Darcy heard Richard choke on his drink. Montegue startled, looking taken aback. "You don't mean, surely - !"

"Yes, I do. Isabella has specifically listed you as one of the gentlemen whose company she enjoys enough to continue seeing you occasionally even now that she will not require the payment."

"And you would allow that?!" Richard appeared to have found his voice.

"My dear Fitzwilliam, it is not my place to _allow _or _disallow_ my Mistress to do anything. She will own me, body and soul, but she may do as she wishes." Then he gave Montegue a lop-sided grin: "Besides, I know how very good you are at pleasing my Mistress, cousin. I remember tasting the evidence of her pleasure from her undergarments." Montegue looked uncomfortable at the memory, at the image of himself swinging his hand back and delivering firm smacks to Darcy's bared behind.

Richard was enraged. "You are planning to marry a bloody courtesan, and allow her to cuckold you?!"

"I still take exception to your usage of the word 'allow', but in essentials you are correct. I will marry a beautiful courtesan, and become both her slave and her cuckold."'

"Disgusting!" Richard exclaimed, throwing his chair back and angrily storming out.

"He will come around," Montegue murmured. "Although I cannot fault him for being enraged. It is too much for a sane person like him to take in. It is even a bit too much for me, to be honest. I did not like thrashing you that last time, Darcy, and I do not think I can take part in your cuckolding. Do not misunderstand me - I desire Isabella very much, have been halfway in love with her at some time, - but you are my friend and relation, and we are both gentlemen of the highest circles. I will remain your close family friend, will observe your marriage and wish for some aspects of it to be mirrored in my own some day, but I will not be intimate with your wife."

Darcy nodded and firmly shook his cousin's hand before standing up to depart. He felt a newfound respect for Montegue and wished with all his might that his cousin might find the happiness he deserves in his own marriage. Perhaps a gently bred lady with only the stirrings of the predilection for dominance did exist in the _ton_. Montegue could make it work.

Montegue, whom he had considered strange and debauched only half a year before, had proven to be the most sensible and open-minded of the three cousins. Richard's stubborn disgust continued to irk Darcy. But he was not so blind as not to acknowledge that his behavior was hardly more sane. Darcy understood that his relationship with Elizabeth was insane, volatile, and dangerous. But such it was, and such it had to be, given their beginnings and all that had passed between them since. In all its perverseness, in all its volatile danger, their relationship was symbiotic and needed. It was the necessary catharsis for them both: for her resentment and for his guilt. With surprised joy, Darcy realized that he had not been plagued with his nightmares for nearly five months.

Arriving in his townhouse, Darcy made quick work of removing his clothing. Elizabeth preferred him to be nude in her presence, and he delighted in the appreciation she had for his physique. He found he was sincere in his willingness to remain an innocent for as long as she wished, forever if that was her desire. The way she ran her hands down the plains of his chest and his flat abdomen, down to cup and stroke his desire, was pleasure enough. Servicing her with his fingers and tongue, and receiving permission for his own releases, was more than he had ever hoped for before.

"Johnny?" He was surprised, annoyed, to find his nemesis' head between his Mistress's thighs when he entered her study.

"Fitzwilliam, hello." He was greeted by his Mistress, Johnny's head continuing in its methodical ministrations. "My boys have joined your staff today."

Darcy felt himself tremble with rage at the sight of the handsome Italian pleasuring his Goddess, doing what _he _had been so ardently looking forward to do. Memories of the last time he spoke to Johnny flashed quickly through his mind.

_'Mistress has requested for you to attend her. I was not able to satisfy her.'_

_'I was not able to satisfy her.'_

_'I was not able to satisfy her.'_

Some perilous mix of anger and anxiety took hold of his entire being, and without thinking, Darcy spoke in the perfect tone of the Master of Pemberley.

"Leave us, Johnny."

Johnny, completely taken aback at being thus addressed by a man who had spent four months as his inferior servant, did not immediately move, but abruptly stopped in his attentions.

"Fitzwilliam -" There was a warning in Elizabeth's voice that Darcy chose not to heed.

"I told you to leave us, Johnny," he spoke in a chillingly low tone. "If you wish to have a decent place, I suggest you learn to obey commands speedily. Leave. _Now."_

Johnny scurried up and, without a word, hurriedly left the room.

Darcy walked to the nearest window, facing it. He could not bear to look at his Mistress just yet. "I believe Lord Jenniton is looking for a new footman. I will write Johnny a reference."

"You will do no such thing."

He turned towards her. "Very well. If you wish for him to be dismissed without a reference, I am glad to oblige."

Elizabeth's eyes were so very beautiful when they flashed with anger. "You know perfectly well that that is not what I meant. Johnny is _my _footman, and I have no desire to dismiss him."

"Then do with him what you please. He will not be working in _my _house."

Her eyes no longer flashed with anger. They stopped flashing altogether. As she rose, very slowly, from the settee, as she spoke in a tone more detached than he had ever heard from her before, Darcy immediately realized that he had gone too far. "_Your _house? Thank you, sir, for making everything so very clear to me. I misunderstood your intentions when I came to see you in Pemberley, and I have only my own foolishness to blame. Good day, sir."

She moved towards the door, but he moved faster, desperately grasping her shoulders. "Elizabeth, wait! Where are you going?"

"Back to _my _house, Mr. Darcy. You need not worry, Johnny is coming with me, as are Thomas and Claude."

"You don't mean..." _Oh God, she does, she means just that. _"You are not leaving me?"

"I do not know the correct terminology for the situation at hand, sir. I am merely departing from a house where my place has been made abundantly clear to me, and where that place is not to my liking."

_No no no no no... what have I done?_

"Elizabeth, please, it is not like that."

"What is it like, then? You said it yourself - this is _your _house. And apparently, as your wife-to-be, I do not even have a say in choosing the domestic staff."

He was halfway between despair and exacerbation. _Why can't she see_? "No, of course that's not true, Elizabeth! You may have any staff you wish for. Just not... you know how I feel about Johnny. After everything that passed between us, I cannot abide to have him on my property."

"I may know most of what passed between the two of you, but you know _nothing _about what passed between him and me, Mr. Darcy. Do you know how _I _feel about Johnny?"

Darcy's heart constricted at that question. _Does she love him_? "N-no. How do you feel about him, Mistress?"

"He is my friend, one of my oldest and dearest friends. One of the few people who stood by me from the beginning. I do not love him, not in the romantic way. And I do not feel passionately towards him, not the way I feel towards you. But I find his company and his attention comforting. Familiar. Calming. I will not part with him."

Even after their reconciliation at Pemberley, it was unusual for Elizabeth to open up to him. Darcy divined that it was unusual, difficult for her to open up to anyone. She did not trust easily.

Seeing her open and vulnerable made him yearn to do anything he could to bring her comfort. Seeing her still place a token of her trust in his hands shamed him. He had fought so hard for this trust, and now, he had done precisely what she had feared, precisely what would destroy all that trust in a second.

"Forgive me," he whispered softly.

She furrowed her brows, her look questioning.

"You are correct, I did not know or think to ask what Johnny meant for you, Mistress. I professed my full submission to you, but then I completely obliterated it in a single minute. Of course, this house is yours. Everything I own is yours. _I _am yours."

She nodded thoughtfully. "And yet you can take it away at any moment, can't you?"

"I can. But I won't. _I won't_, Elizabeth, you have to trust me. I know that I do not make it easy, not with our past and not with what I have done just now. I am truly sorry for the way I spoke and behaved. I asserted my authority over you in a way that exactly confirmed all fears and doubts you had about me. I am truly, deeply, desperately sorry, my Goddess. _Please _allow me another chance."

There were tears pulling in her beautiful eyes, and for a full minute he allowed himself to simply hold her. Then he gently seated her back on the settee and curled up around her lovely feet. They both needed this moment to gather themselves, to reconnect with the dynamic of their relationship, to begin to rebuild it.

After some time, Darcy allowed himself a glimpse into her beautiful face. He found her studying him intently.

Taking a deep breath, Darcy began tentatively, hoping with all his might that he was going in the right direction, that she still wanted him. "Please, Mistress, will you punish your slave for his atrocious behavior? You have been very generous with him, and he has not been punished in some time. Perhaps a good thrashing will remind him of his place?"

She pursed her lips, and made him await her answer for several agonizingly slow seconds. "Very well, I suppose you might be correct. I will see if whipping my slave's buttocks red will help. Perhaps if he feels his chastisement every time he sits down, he might remember his place."

Darcy grinned. "Thank you, Mistress."

"Go bring me the crop, boy."

"Yes, Mistress." On his way out, he turned back towards her. "Mistress, would you like me to call Johnny back in? It may help to have him witness my punishment. It was terrible of me to disrespect you in his presence. Seeing my whipping might help repair any insult to your authority that I may have caused in his eyes."

"That is a very good point, boy. Yes, please invite Johnny to come watch your punishment." She gave him one of her special, genuine, brilliant smiles, and he had a skip in his step as he went to procure the riding crop and the footman.

It was a valuable lesson for Darcy, who vowed to never again do anything to make his Mistress question his dedication to serve and obey her. Observing Johnny's cool but polite attitude towards himself after his whipping, Darcy wondered if his Mistress, too, had made a concession. The footman's politely differential attitude was in stark contrast to his former taunting, a contract that Darcy attributed to a private conversation Elizabeth must have had with Johnny. That thought warmed him. _Elizabeth might be the Mistress, she might own and command and punish me. The ultimate decision is hers, but she does take my feelings into account. She has kept Johnny, but she would not allow him to torment me._

He had grown comfortable in his submission. He was beginning to grow secure in Elizabeth's affection. And on the day when his Mistress became Elizabeth Darcy, he fancied himself the happiest of men.

She had chosen to change her first name at the same time as taking his last name. Ostensibly to distance herself from her past as a courtesan, but he suspected it was in part driven by the fact that to him, she was always Elizabeth. He thought that she knew how much he yearned for her to be Elizabeth Darcy, and that this was her wondrous wedding present to him.

His own wedding presents to her included, to his utmost delight, not only his body, soul, estate, and submission, but also his innocence. In the Mistress bedchamber, she allowed him to cover every inch of her with adoring kisses, and then bade him to recline on the sumptuous bed, straddled his hips, and permitted him to enter Heaven.

He did not last long enough to bring her pleasure, did not last long at all. But after a trip across her lap and a most delightful hand spanking for his lack of control, she mounted him again, and alternatively rode his face and his manhood until she reached her height at the same time as him.

Obligingly, he licked her precious core clean of his second load, so deliciously mixed with her divine juices. And when he begged her permission to sleep on the floor next to her bed instead of retreating back to the Master chamber, she readily agreed. From that first wonderful night, he was permitted to sleep on a pile of blankets and pillows there on the floor next to her, or even occasionally on the bed at her feet, whenever she was not entertaining other lovers.

On the nights she spent with others, he listened to her moans from his lonely bed in the Master chamber, and was allowed to touch his aching manhood to the brink of release but not beyond. In the morning, he would serve breakfast to her and to her lover, and she would humiliate him in front the other man by allowing him to stroke himself to completion. His wasted seed on the floor, and her lover's seed in her womanhood formed his own breakfast. He saw how much she enjoyed his willingness to debase himself for her, and he loved every moment of it. He loved every moment of _her_. He loved her.

And he fell in love for the second time when he first laid eyes on Cassandra Darcy. It did not matter in the slightest that _Cassie_ had not come from his loins. It did not matter who had fathered her, for the darling little creature looked every bit like her beloved mother.

"She is lovely, isn't she?" Elizabeth's voice sounded so soft and tender, that he could hardly recognize it. Looking over to where she was reclining amidst the pillows, he noticed her lips upraised into the most serenely happy smile and her eyes shining at their little girl in his arms.

"Yes, she is. Perhaps almost as lovely as her mother." At the unspoken command of Elizabeth's outstretched arms, he deposited the precious cargo back to his wife.

"Oh no, she is far lovelier than her unfortunate mother! Lovelier, purer, better in every way."

"No." He knelt next to the bed, and took one of Elizabeth's hands into both of his. "There is nothing lovelier or better than you, my Goddess."

"I shall not squabble with you on this, but merely content myself with hoping that she benefits from having such an excellent father." Elizabeth graced him with a delightfully fond smile, and Darcy's heart soared at both her words and the uncharacteristic scene of domesticity they were portraying. He was so very glad to be this woman's husband - _slave_, he mentally smiled, - and this little angel's father. _His _little angel's father. Very firmly and unwaveringly, Darcy felt that little Cassie was indeed his, in all the ways that mattered.


End file.
